


Five Minute Major

by junichiblue



Category: Bleach, Grimmichi - Fandom
Genre: Drama & Romance, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-16 00:38:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 172,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7245244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junichiblue/pseuds/junichiblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when the most bitter rivals in hockey are on the same team?  Grimmjow is a reckless, violent NHL enforcer trying to rise to the top of his game.  Ichigo is a newcomer with a gift for scoring goals.  Together, they should be unstoppable.  Instead they turn the hockey world into a battle zone.  Careers are on the line.  Injuries are piling up.  Something has to break. Grimmichi</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. I'm Junichiblue. You may have seen my writing over at ffnet. A friend suggested I create an account here to reach more readers. So, here I am, finally. This will be my first post here.  
> FMM is a very long, slow, slow, slow story. It's not boring (mostly). It just doesn't get right into the sex.  
> Spoiler: It's at the end.  
> I like to hang out with the characters, get to know them, spend time with them, watch them slowly come around and realize, hey, I don't hate this guy like I thought I did... i think I... actually.... wanna......
> 
>  
> 
> Yo: If you read any of my posted works here, and have anything to say, feel free. Feedback is the best. And I'm always checking to see if anyone has thrown a comment my way.
> 
> Note: I don't know why some chapters get posted with double line spacing, and I'm not going to sit there and fix it each time it happens. (though I admit, it's kind of pissing me off - Heh.)

 

Kurosaki Ichigo couldn't believe his eyes or his ears as he stepped off of the padded walkway and glided onto the ice at Seireitei's Sokyoku Hill Arena.

The huge arena was at capacity tonight. Over nineteen thousand horny, hungry fans had come out to see the home team kick some Hollow ass tonight. People from all walks of life lined the interior circumference of the building. The place was sold out.

The pure energy that seemed to fill the entire building was almost a physical thing, a creature alive with a will of its own. The crowd roared with delight as the team made its way onto the ice one by one, fully equipped players, ripe with testosterone and talent, forming an intimidating line along the blue line just off centre ice.

There was a constant sense of motion amongst the men as they shifted from skate to skate and toyed nervously with their sticks. Despite the fidgeting, every man was focused. They were oiled up and ready to go, every one of them hungry to win.

The music thundered out an excited beat and hammered its way into Kurosaki Ichigo's head, while bright lights and moving advertizements flickered and flashed and jogged their way around the screens that circled the stands.

It was almost too much for Ichigo, a near visceral overload.

Everywhere he looked, Ichigo saw black, blue and gold, Soul Reaper colors. In the crowd, on the banners, and on the ridiculously large screens that loomed above the ice. The people and the team colors seem to blanket the entire arena, filling it with an almost overpowering feeling of raw energy and highly charged emotions.

Ichigo had never felt so proud. Or so small.

He'd played almost every game of the regular season, many of them in this, his home town's arena, but he couldn't remember ever feeling quite this nervous. Even his first NHL game as a Soul Reaper hadn't left him this high strung.

Christ. His fucking knees were shaking.

He just hoped to God that the cameras that lined almost every available space in the arena didn't zoom in on him while he waited in line along with his teammates for the anthem to begin.

He was stupid to think they wouldn't, though. He was as an up-and-comer, one of the team's top scorers and in his first season at that. The cameras would be trained on him, and his every move would be scrutinized during this entire series. Normally Ichigo liked the attention, but the pressure was on now and he couldn't afford to make any mistakes. His team needed him to be at his best.

Oh, God. He was going to throw up.

He felt something nudge his arm and he turned his head, only to find himself caught like a fish in a net, unable to escape a penetrating blue gaze.

“Hey. Don't let it get to ya. It's just another game.” Electric blue eyes crinkled slightly at the corners as the larger player's mouth flared out into a broad, cocky, lopsided grin.

“...'Sides,” he shrugged, indicating towards the fans that surrounded them with a sideways nod of his head. “They love us.”

A fanged smile and the tip of a pink tongue was suddenly all Ichigo could see for a moment, and he felt himself blush slightly. But he grinned back regardless, the mere sight of the man beside him somehow managing to settle his stomach like nothing else could have. Even if they didn't win the series, he had everything else he ever wanted. The taller, broad shouldered player raised his glove and Ichigo reached up with his own to bump their fists together.

“Thanks,” he mouthed.

The larger man grinned down at Ichigo and graced him with a wicked smile that he knew was reserved for him alone. The taller man finally straightened and faced forward as the music began to play, the crowd quieting down just enough to hear a man proudly belt out the words to their country's anthem.

In just a few minutes Ichigo would be playing in his first NHL playoff hockey game.

He couldn't be happier, or more surprised. They were squaring off against their bitter rivals, the Hueco Mundo Hollows. It was going to be a battle royal, and only one team was going to come out on top.

It had been a long, hard, rocky road for the Seireitei Soul Reapers, but for the first time in five years, they'd made it to the playoffs.

The real surprise though, was in the contrasting duo that played such a pivotal role in getting them there.

To say there had been friction between them would have been a world class understatement of epic proportions.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez stalked his way down the long corridor alone with heavy, choppy strides, the sharp blades of his skates cleaving deep, clean cuts into the padded rubber matting that lined the hallway floor.

The few people he had passed moments ago had all scampered towards the wall in an effort to give the seriously agitated man room to get by without him accidentally knocking them into the concrete wall or spearing them with his stick. The man's cobalt eyes were on fire, blue hair damp and matted to his head, his shoulders heaving beneath the protective pads. The player's need to break things was palpable, and no one wanted to be the one to accidentally set him off.

He was a large enough man to begin with, standing at six foot three, entire body riddled with muscles. Add several pounds of hockey equipment, shoulder pads, thick gloves, and skates, and he seemed to fill the hallway, his very presence a force in itself.

Somewhere behind the outraged player, one of the team's young assistants picked up the bluenet's forgotten gloves and discarded helmet, the one that had bounced off of a wall before rolling like a warped bowling ball down the hallway. But the young man who now clutched the gear hung back. The cheques he brought home didn't have nearly enough zeros on them to make him feel brave enough to enter that locker room right now. So instead, he stood there, watching in awe as the back of the infamously temperamental player disappeared around the corner toward the dressing rooms.

The tired and sweating bluenet had already peeled off his jersey and started to work on his safety gear before he even reached the open doorway that lead into the Soul Reaper's empty locker room, clawing at the padding with angry, shaking fingers.

He wanted it off. All of it. Everything was sticking and bunching and touching and sticking and just so fucking pointless. The need to get out of that fucking restrictive gear was nearly overloading his already frayed senses. He was hauling in breaths like he was trapped beneath a heavy blanket.

But each layer that was stripped away only seemed to release more suffocating anger into the air until the bluenet was finally whipping his elbow pads like an out of control pitcher, and launching his stick into the corner in a blind fury as he stomped across the room and made his way bitterly towards the corner locker which was reserved for him. The one with the large number six. It was painted in black and positioned with pride high up on the wooden frame. He glanced up at the symbol and snorted.

He was supposed to be the Soul Reaper's infamous number six. But he was beginning to feel like a big fat zero.

A low growl built up in the back of his throat and he turned abruptly away from his locker.

He just wanted to get the fuck out of here. Cool off.

Right now it seemed nearly impossible, but calming down was paramount. He wasn't going to risk putting himself behind the wheel of his newly repaired sports car until the urge to kill every living thing that got in his way had passed. If he could just get out of this place, and away from the noise and the bullshit and the one thing in particular that was pissing him off, he might feel less inclined to commit homicide.

Then maybe later he'd find a hot piece of ass to take care of the ache in his groin.

Grimmjow sat down hard on the wooden bench and tugged angrily at his skates, each one eventually popping off and releasing an invisible cloud of warm, humid foot odour into his face as leaned forward. He wrinkled his nose and tried not to gag before he tossed the offending footwear without care behind him, the skates clattering heavily inside the base of his wooden locker.

Freed from his skates, Grimmjow stood up, and grimaced. He lifted his right leg and rotated his ankle a few times before putting his full weight on it again. It ached still, especially after a game. Didn't matter though. It wasn't holding him back, much. His hands began to move without thought as he systematically began removing the rest of his gear. One by one, he stuffed the pieces of his sweat soaked uniform into his large blue and black hockey bag.

Jersey already off, he began the ordeal of removing each piece of safety gear, socks, shin guards, pants, and finally his protective athletic cup. He thumbed the straps of the cup and slipped them down over his strong, muscled thighs, grunting when the cup pulled away, the action releasing the boner that had been trapped inside the hard, plastic prison.

Fucking Kurosaki.

Bickering with that argumentative little shit always gave him wood.

Of course it did. It always did. The adrenaline rush he got during any fight always went straight to his dick.

It was one of God's little jokes on hot headed guys like Grimmjow.

Get excited. Get hard.

So what, if he was more animal than man? So fucking what? He didn't need some ignorant little bitch of a newb mouthing off to him about his playing style.

The third period was almost over and Grimmjow had been ejected from the game for fighting.

It was all that orange-haired prick's fault. Grimmjow always got into fights. It was part of his job as an enforcer. And he fucking loved it. He was as aggressive as they came, a true alpha male. But this time, he'd taken it a bit too far. He had the guy, his old team mate, Ulquiorra Schiffer, down on the ice, but he couldn't resist getting in a few extra punches before the refs finally stepped in.

Unfortunately, one of those punches had landed true and had caused the pale bastard's head to bounce off the ice, sans helmet. It was instant lights out for old Ulqui. Ah, but Grimmjow didn't feel bad about that. The little fucker deserved it. He'd always been an emotionless, condescending prick when Grimmjow had played for the Hollows.

And tonight, Ulquiorra had been an irritating little fuck as usual, until he finally pushed Grimmjow as far as the sexta would allow. It was late in the third, and number four had twice high sticked and slashed Grimmjow behind the play, and when Grimmjow had complained loudly (and with many bad words) to the ref about it, trying to draw a penalty, they had claimed they hadn't seen it, and effectively ignored him.

So, he'd settled the problem himself. With a smile.

The last he'd seen, as the official's waved their arms frantically and handed him a five minute major for fighting, as well as a fucking game misconduct, the Hollow's team doctor and his crew were hauling out the stretcher for the unconscious player.

Grimmjow had expected the fighting penalty, but he was shitting mad about the game misconduct. The point of the ten minute penalty was to give offending players the opportunity to cool down. It was, in Grimmjow's professional opinion, a very stupid fucking rule. 'Cause let's face it. It just pissed him off even more.

The thing that really burned his ass, though...

The thing that really set his blood on fire...

He wouldn't have lost it so perfectly if that smarmy little cheese head, carrot top, prick hadn't kept egging him on for their entire game. Grimmjow wouldn't have thought it possible, but he was even worse than Ulquiorra. There was some indefinable thing about the way Kurosaki looked at him, something that said, you're not good enough. I don't respect you. I'm better than you.

And then there were the things the turd actually said out loud, right to Grimmjow's fucking face. And it went something like, I don't respect you, and I'm better than you. Fucking unbelievable. The kid had a nine week head start on him with the team and he thought he owned the fucking franchise.

Grimmjow had been a late start to the season. He'd gotten injured just before the start of the hockey pre-season in September. Car accident. It was just a fender bender. Some idiot hadn't been paying attention and had hit him from behind at a red light. But he'd managed to jack up his ankle pretty good. In fact, the injury had been bad enough that the coaching staff had decided to write Grimmjow off for the season, much to the bluenet's outrage.

Written off. Grimmjow.

Unacceptable.

Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez was officially off the roster. He'd spent the first two weeks brooding in his apartment, effectively laid up, living without purpose, watching the world march on without him, feeling like a ghost.

But miracles do happen. And although it meant that misfortune had to fall on others, it worked in Grimmjow's favour. And he couldn't have been happier. Only a few short weeks into pre-season training, the team had been plagued with serious injuries, and as a result had lost several of its forwards. That left a huge space that desperately needed to be filled. And to Grimmjow's delight, the team's coach had come "crawling" back to the bluenet.

Well, not really.

Grimmjow called  _them_  when he heard the news. He'd been watching the 'body count' pile up from the very first injury and as soon as he'd realized how desperate his team was becoming, he'd told his physiotherapist to push him to his limits, and had spent every waking minute training as best he could with personal trainers. Given the doctors' original prognosis, Grimmjow's recovery had been quite remarkable.

But not to him. He was the freaking sexta for crying out loud. To think a little thing like an ankle injury could keep him down was bullshit.

He worked like a man possessed, but still, the bluenet had missed training camp, which meant no practices and no pre-season games. He'd even missed their first nine regular season games before their good doctor finally cleared him. Despite that, Grimmjow was grateful to whatever hockey gods existed, but he knew he still had some serious catching up to do if he wanted his comback to mean anything.

Grimmjow had been damn near thrilled to bits to be able skate again. He lived for hockey. Like most dedicated hockey players, he'd practically learned to skate before he'd figured out how to walk. But it wasn't just the game that he loved. It was everything  _about_  the game. The feel of his blades sliding against the ice, the power he called up as he raced at the speed of stupid into the opposing team's zone with the puck, and the physical pain as he crushed other players with his body into the boards or smashed his fist into their faces.

Oh, and the scoring. He was working on his accuracy, lining up his shots better, focusing. There were rewards there too. The adoration of the fans. The respect of his teammates. There was nothing wrong with that.

Grimmjow was a forward, and by his very violent nature, a natural enforcer for his team. The bluenet wasn't the best player, though he'd improved dramatically in the past year with the Reapers. But he was certainly a presence on the ice, a bringer of pain, a harbinger of doom, a player who sent other players scrambling for their mothers when they realized he was lining them up.

At twenty five, he was just starting his fourth year in the NHL and his second season with the Soul Reapers. He'd started his career with the Hueco Mundo Hollows, gotten called up from their farm team. But after two seasons they'd mutually decided that he wasn't a good fit. So, he'd been put up for trading.

It hadn't worked out so bad in the end. Grimmjow didn't even have to move. He'd lived in Seireitei for almost ten years and hoped to stay there. The hour long commute to Hueco Mundo had always been a pain anyway. And most of the guys on the team had an even worse attitude that he did. That was hard to believe. Even he'd admit it.

The majority of the Reapers, though, were pretty cool most of the time. So, when he looked at it, over all the trade had been a blessing. Everything had turned around.

He liked playing for the Soul Reapers. They were his team.

His.

And then Kurosaki Ichigo showed up and started rocking the boat, upsetting the natural order of things. Everybody but Grimmjow seemed de-fucking-lighted to have the guy aboard. They had high hopes for the kid, like he was some kind of prodigy or something. They had it in their heads that he was going to take the Soul Reapers to greater places.

Sure, Kurosaki could shoot. But he was a fucking glory hog. Okay, so Grimmjow generally wasn't much better. If he saw a shot, he took it, regardless of who was yelling at him that they were open. But more and more Grimmjow found himself wishing he was back with the Hollows, just so he could be on the other side and legitimately take the little shit out, grind him into nothing but a wet, bloody smear across the boards. But no. They had to be on the same fucking team didn't they? That was the only reason their arguments had never progressed beyond cursing, shouting matches, and practice hits with more love in them than necessary. Well, Grimmjow's fuse was lit but good now. And one of these days, Grimmjow was going to show that little fuck where tears come from.

At first Grimmjow just thought the kid didn't like passing off the puck, but it didn't take a genius to realize that Ichigo very specifically didn't like passing the puck to  _him_. And so, whenever they were in the same lineup and Ichigo scored, which was pretty fucking often, Grimmjow didn't even get a lousy assist.

As a result, his stats were falling. Kurosaki was making him look like a chump.

He was stealing Grimmjow's thunder.

And that wasn't right. And it wasn't fair. He was the king. Not Ichigo.

Grimmjow hadn't worked as hard as he had to improve his skills and his scoring just to have some post pubescent (Okay, so the guy was like 21. Fuck off.) fresh from the farm, Gretzky wannabe show up and start muscling in on Grimmjow's hard fought status. Grimmjow was on his way to becoming a power forward, a player who was equally capable of playing physically or scoring goals. He was large. He was tough. And he had the offensive instincts, mobility, and puck-handling skills that he needed to make him a valued member of his team. He'd blossomed with the Soul Reapers and was slowly grooming himself into the complete package. He would never deny his love of a good fight, but he wasn't going to be just a mindless bruiser who's soul purpose was to seek and destroy. A little more time, and the right conditions, and everyone would see. Grimmjow could do it all.

The sound of a buzzer and raucous cheers echoed down the corridor into the quiet dressing room where the bluenet was just finishing pulling on a loose fitting, navy blue, crew neck tee and tucking the edges into the rim of his black, stone washed jeans. He raked limp, blue hair back and away from his forehead in one smooth motion with long fingers. He was still caked in sweat and grease, and probably stunk to high heaven but he'd shower when he got...

" _Number 15, Kurosaki Ichigoooo..."_

A hard, guttural noise shattered the relative peace of the locker room, followed by the loud snap of wood splintering apart, and a slew of curses that would have made Satan himself blush.

The obnoxious arena music that had been but a distant annoyance for the past five minutes suddenly seemed to pour down the long hallway like a constricted tidal wave and crash into the room, flooding it and drowning him in the sickening sound of his arch nemesis's victory.

Grimmjow felt his blood pressure rise, and he stood there for a moment, trying to remember  _how_  to take deep slow breaths before he blew out an artery.

It helped. Some. The urge to destroy anything with orange on it wasn't quite so strong now. He took another "calming" breath, then snatched up his hockey bag and threw the broad strap over his shoulder before storming out of the locker room and heading towards the exit. He'd be hearing all about the game and his ejection from it tomorrow, but for now he just wanted to put this night behind him.

He adjusted the heavy bag of hockey gear so it didn't press so hard into a tender bruise on his shoulder as he lumbered out of the room. Normally, the guys left their dirty gear behind to be cleaned by the staff, but Grimmjow had a thing about other people touching his stuff. So, he'd always done his own goddamn laundry. He'd have to do it as soon as he got home or else he'd soon be calling the centre for disease control and prevention.

Fuck. That lay was looking farther and farther away. He could throw his shit in the laundry and call some chick over but he knew he wouldn't be in the mood to share his very private space with anyone tonight.

As he moved swiftly towards the exit, Grimmjow tried not to look up at the flat screen TV's that seemed to be suddenly everywhere, but he couldn't keep his eyes away from the image that was being replayed repeatedly on on the bright LCD displays.

Number fifteen taking a long pass. Number fifteen breaking away. Number fifteen lining up the shot, shooting... no... faking the shot. The goaltender going down. Number fifteen tucking the puck neatly upstairs. Number fifteen raising his hands and milking the moment for all it was worth.

Grimmjow scowled darkly at the bright display which was currently filled with cheering fans and celebrating Soul Reapers.

Several arena staff scuttled by the ejected player as quickly as they could when they caught sight of the man's murderous expression. A deep, hate filled growl echoed through the hall, turning to a disgusted snarl as the bluenet spun on his heel and stormed towards the exit, an almost visible black cloud churning above him, lightening and all.

They could all suck it.

He was so fucking out of here.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

As first meetings went, Ichigo didn't consider theirs anything extraordinary.

A bit awkward, perhaps, the peeled open feeling of being assessed bye sapphire cubes of ice bringing about a mild sense of unease, but nothing too disturbing. Nothing truly foreboding.

Ichigo had already gained miles of confidence since his first shaky days during practice. It was thanks in large to the excellent coaching staff and the support he'd had from some of the more seasoned veterans. Despite the near constant childish antiques of allegedly grown men, most of the Reapers were pretty good guys. For guys who worked and played as hard as they did, they all seemed to carry themselves with a relaxed and easy air.

The orange haired forward had nine preseason games under his belt now, but for the next few days the Soul Reaper's schedule was clear. That didn't mean they took a break, though. Instead, their coach worked them for five hours a day during practise sessions that occasionally left Ichigo nearly exhausted. Their time was split between running through endless drills and going over plays, to picking through footage from previous games and analyzing mistakes. It made for an exceptional workout and kept them in top physical and mental form. Such was the working life of a pro-athlete.

A few of the guys were so hard core, they even worked out before practice.

Outside, the wind was picking up to blustery levels, the colourful leaves clinging to their branches by their skins on the sunny fall day. Inside the Sokyoku Hill Arena, there was blustering of a different kind going on, a coltish battle of wits and witless remarks.

It was going on ten a.m. inside the Soul Reaper's locker room, and the space was already bustling with half naked players.

It took Ichigo a moment to get through the good-natured ribbing and obscene gestures that were aimed his way, the provocative teasing which had become part of his daily routine as new man on the totem pole.

Their goaltender, Renji, was the worst, going so far as to toss the damp towel from around his waste at Ichigo's face and call Ichigo a carpet muncher. Ichigo quickly flicked the offending linen off of his shoulder with a disgusted grimace. He didn't even want to know what Renji had meant by that. But regrettably, he did... even before he glanced down at the naked Soul Reaper's exposed junk and got an impromptu eyeful of thick red hair. Double yuck.

The orangette turned away and dumped his open hockey bag on the floor in front of his locker before peeling off his white, long sleeved shirt, and loosening the drawstring of his favourite grey sweatpants, the ones with the blue arrows running up the sides of the legs. Ichigo didn't feel any particular aversion to being in a locker room with guys in various states of dress. He was quite used to it. And he wasn't usually shy with his own body. Hell, he worked hard to keep himself in shape and he knew that most people would love to have a body like his.

What? He wasn't conceited or anything. It was just a fact. He was an athlete. And he had the body to prove it.

Ichigo stepped out of his jogging pants and began rifling through his hockey bag as he tried to focus on the friendly banter that filled the locker room. He caught snippets of different conversations from his team mates, voices chiming in from every direction. It was a mixture of the latest news and personal insults as the players gleefully took the piss out of each other.

Outdated dirty jokes and cheesy put downs were flung across the room, followed by jeers and raucous laughter, Renji's voice coming out loud and clear at one point. Ichigo shuddered as he kicked off his dark blue jogging pants. He was still trying to get the disturbing image out of his head when another voice caught his attention.

It was one he hadn't heard before. Not in person. And the gravelly tenor rushed down his spine in a dangerously delicious way.

A chorus of greetings rang out as a large blue haired man swaggered through the room and slipped through the gaggle of jostling players with a fluid ease that made Ichigo feel a pang of envy.

“Yo. Sexta!” That was Renji.

“Grim baby! How the fuck are ya?” Shinji.

“Nice a ya ta grace us with your presence, yer highness.” Shiro.

“Yeah, man. We won three straight games. Glad yer back before we got too used to it.” Renji again.

The man with sky blue hair graced his teammates with a tolerant grin as he sauntered by and flipped them all the bird.

They called him the Sexta.

He was the Soul Reapers' top enforcer.

Number six. Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez. 

The name itself had dangerous intonations. It made one conjure up images of the grim reaper and brought to mind rows of sharp, jagged teeth that snapped at your heels as you were hunted down without mercy.

You almost couldn't even say it without a snarl forming on your lips.

Try it. Say it.

Jaegerjaquez.

See?

Within seconds of laying eyes on the blue-haired enforcer, Ichigo was mesmerized. There was something primordial and feral about the man. He was clearly a guy who would never be content to live life outside of a sport like hockey, or boxing, or even UFC, anything that came with the promise of pain and blood.

He was an animal.

And hells bells if he wasn't the most brilliant piece of art Ichigo had ever seen. He had to admit, he was envious. He wanted that body.

Excuse him. He meant, he wanted it for himself.

Nope, missed again. He meant he wanted to have that... have a body like that.

While Ichigo groused to himself over his alarming display of poorly executed mental acrobatics, the newest addition to the locker room was pulling up next to one of the teams' more seasoned veterans, Kensei Muguruma. He stood nearly head to head with Grimmjow, his white hair cropped neat and short. He was slightly broader at the shoulders than the blue-haired man, but despite his intimidating stature, he was one of the friendliest players on the team.

Ichigo had realized quickly that Kensei tended to act as something of a peacemaker between the players on the rare occasion when they butted heads. Kensei had done his share of enforcing in his early years but he was inherently a gentle man, and a family man now too. So, he was content to leave the more brutal side of the game to the younger players.

As Ichigo looked down the long line of players, and stole a glance in their direction, the two men exchanged a few quiet words. They seemed friendly, comfortable. The new guy, Jaegerjaquez, was even smiling as Kensei knuckled him playfully in the shoulder. Ichigo knew who this blue-haired man was, of course. He had followed all of the players' careers before he'd been drafted. This guy was one of the newer additions to the team. He was a rough player, dirty sometimes, but he was effective. It wasn't Ichigo's style, but who was he to argue with results? The Reapers had done better in the last year than they had four years running, and at least some tiny part of that may have had to do with the blue-haired enforcer.

“Yo, Ichi. You haven't met our star bully yet.” Ichigo jerked when Kensei bellowed at him from the other end of the locker room where Grimmjow had already finished removing most of his street wear, nothing but a dark pair of boxer briefs clinging to his hips.

Kensei introduced them with a slight bow and a roll of his arm.

“Ichigo. Grimmjow. - Grimmjow. Ichigo.”

Ichigo ghosted a smile and raised two fingers in a motionless wave before quickly dropping his hand and letting the corners of his mouth pull back, as eyes as cold as the antarctic settled on him, looking him up and down, searching for a redeeming feature and apparently coming up short.

“Hn,” the bluenet snorted. “I know who you are,” he said slowly, nothing short of pure contempt dripping from his words.

Ichigo frowned back at the bluenet, confused. What had he done to deserve that kind of response? The man couldn't possibly have a grudge against someone he'd only just met. Could he?

He was about to take exception to the man's prejudiced tone when it dawned on Ichigo, suddenly beginning to sweat under that burning polar gaze, that he was quite naked at the moment, and Grimmjow was still staring at him. The orangette snatched up his t-shirt from where it lay on the bench and opened it out in front of himself as if to fold it as he was hit with the sudden urge to cover his exposed skin.

Grimmjow grinned, but anything that could have appeared friendly about it had been expertly held back. Ichigo felt his brow crease and held the other man's gaze. It was disturbing. Looking into those eyes was like entering the man's dominion. Ichigo was obliged by now to rise up to the challenge that was so obviously being aimed at him. It was some sort of intimidation tactic to be sure. But this guy didn't know yet that Kurosaki Ichigo was not one to back down when the heat was on. It was only for a moment, the locking of invisible horns, but it felt like anything but to the orange-haired man.

The bluenet finally turned away, apparently pleased that he had made the new guy so obviously uncomfortable.

Ichigo took a deep breath, only realizing now that he hadn't taken one since Grimmjow had looked in his direction.

Okay, so maybe that was just Grimmjow's way of ribbing Ichigo, the same as all the other guys had done. Ichigo could handle anything they threw at him, and by all rights, Grimmjow's little test wasn't that bad. Everything that had seemed to still in the room suddenly came rushing back to life in a noisy lurch. Or maybe Ichigo had slipped back into it. It was hard to tell.

Ichigo twitched at the shiver that rattled down his spine. For a moment, the encounter had left him with the strangest sensation, like he and the bluenet had slipped out of space and time and ended up in a barren world where only the two of them existed, locked in a dangerous battle of domination and supremacy. Ichigo snorted as he turned back to his locker and rifled through his sports equipment, picking out the bits and pieces that needed to be put on first. He didn't have time for fanciful thinking. And almost as soon as the feeling hit, it seemed to fade away.

It was just a test. He was still the new guy here. This man didn't know him from shit.

He slipped into his gear quickly and readied himself for practice. He was sure that once they hit the ice and Ichigo had shown the bluenet that he'd earned the right to be there, he and Grimmjow would get along just fine.


	4. Chapter 4

Two practice sessions and three games later, and Ichigo couldn't frigging stand him.

He was the most volatile player on the team, hands down.

The guy was barbaric. He seemed to live for destruction, knocking down players like dominoes on the ice, whether they were deserving of his wrath, in Ichigo's opinion, or not.

Ichigo was well aware of Grimmjow's general playing style. He'd seen it in games on T.V., and he'd seen in the live games he'd attended just the year before, but he'd never actually had to experience it at ice level, work with the guy, watch him headhunt other players over and over again with the coldness of a serial killer.

He didn't have to hear the crunch of bones being broken, or listen to the pained moans as muscles were bruised, and wheezing breaths as lungs were crushed by the terrifyingly hard, full body hits that Grimmjow dished out during every game.

Ichigo leaned forward and glanced to his right, past the players that separated him from the bluenet on the bench, as the game played out in front of them.

Number six was watching the play like a cat fixated on a the red dot from a laser beam.

Grimmjow wasn't like the others. His eyes were more focused, like he was hunting the game, watching for infractions against his teammates so he could nudge the right people when he was let out of his cage and onto the ice, let them know that he was going to come back for them. He just wouldn't tell them when. 

In moments like this, the Sexta reminded Ichigo of something that stalked the deepest depths of the darkest jungle, a creature that crawled amongst the vines, slithered in caged silence through tangled underbrush, a predator that haunted its prey before devouring it.

Ichigo had learned that mental torture was generally Grimmjow's modus operandi for smaller infractions. The bigger violations, though, he took care of immediately and thoroughly. Instant retaliation. And eye for an eye. Ichigo usually didn't subscribe to that kind of mentality. Don't get him wrong. He didn't pull his punches. He was known for getting into fights on the ice if he was pushed. Sometimes even just a nudge would do it.

Regardless, Ichigo could hold his own like a champ when he needed to.

But he didn't need to curb stomp a man to make his point.

Nobody on Ichigo's old team played like that. Urahara Kisuke had never allowed it. That wasn't to say it never happened. Such was the game of hockey. And guys were guys. They had tempers. They were human and sometimes they lost it completely and pulled stupid moves. But Urahara always taught them to play clean and fair, to stick to the rules and avoid drawing penalties.

Ichigo knew he wasn't in the minors anymore. He wasn't adverse to change, and he accepted that things here would be different.

He was in the big leagues now. He was playing with the big boys.

And he was in the ring with a lunatic.

Despite all of the focus on Grimmjow's - I'm the darkest thing this world has ever seen on ice – image, Ichigo couldn't shake the sensation, the whisper of concern, that had snuck up out of nowhere and now seemed stuck inside him. Like a chalky pill that hadn't quite gone down, it caught and annoyed, and left a bad hurl-worthy taste behind.

There was another side to all the violence that baffled Ichigo.

Grimmjow never came away completely unscathed.

It wasn't the hardest part to watch, but still, it kind of bothered the young forward. The Sexta used his body like a battering ram. There was no way, even with proper techniques, that a player could repeatedly hit as hard as he did and not come away in pain as well.

But you didn't see it on the ice. Grimmjow never let it show. And the fans always cheered him on.

The crowds couldn't see the damage he inflicted on himself. They didn't see the deep bruises that often littered his arms and shoulders from where he threw himself into other players, or the purple, swollen skin that darkened into ugly crescents beneath his opalescent eyes whenever a punch made it through during a fight.

The badges he wore were the ugly aftermath of the game, Grimmjow's game anyway, sickening shades of black and blue and unhealthy yellow.

Not Soul Reaper colours. But the colours of a man who let his rage consume him in the heat of battle, who cared nothing for himself, who lost sight of consequences. The bluenet was there for all the wrong reasons. He wasn't playing for the love of the game, just the hurt of it.

And that was just the tip of Ichigo's frustration. The bluenet was a diamond in the rough, really rough. To see all that potential thrown away night after night, to watch the coach pat him on the back and tell him what a fine job he'd done... it set Ichigo's teeth on edge.

Ichigo was sure he could see more than empty rage behind that mask. Grimmjow could be more than just an animal if he could just harness that energy and pour it into the game that Ichigo knew. That's what Urahara would say.

And that's what Ichigo thought, until just two weeks later, when he was forced to pair up with the Sexta.

It was almost December, and they hadn't played on the same line together for more than a few minutes here and there. The coach was always switching things up, trying to find the perfect balance of players to increase their offensive chances and improve their defensive strength. He hadn't seen anything noteworthy happen when he'd paired the two forwards together, so their on-ice time was limited to mainly practice sessions.

The problems had started when the coach noticed that Ichigo was getting taken down a lot more often along the boards, and being high sticked, boarded, cross-checked, elbowed, speared, and goaded into fight after fight. Anything to destroy his focus. Kurosaki had quite a temper when he was provoked, and it often didn't take a lot to get him there.

Up until then, he had been on a hot streak, sometimes nearly single handedly winning games for the Reapers. A few goals here, a few goals there, a hat trick or two, and the team's prospects were looking good for the season. Ichigo was living up to every expectation and more.

But with the glory came the pitfalls. Number fifteen, Kurosaki, had a price tag on his head. After just two and a half months of Ichigo showing the NHL just what he could do, the cards were on the table, and other teams' hard hitting players were gunning for him with a passion. They couldn't seem to block his shots so their tactics were changing, and now they wanted to take out the Reaper's high scoring offence-man in any way possible.

And that's when Ichigo's winning streak came to an end. He could barely move around the ice without being targeted and taken out.

The playing field had changed. Until recently, Ichigo hadn't needed much in the way of help to do his job, and suddenly he had a body guard he didn't want.

Never mind that Ichigo now spent more time dodging oncoming players and watching his back than shooting the puck, the blue-haired asshole's presence was beginning to affect his game.

* * * * *

Just two weeks of working with the bluenet, and Ichigo was actually missing the days of silence between them.

They almost never spoke in the locker room, and it seemed to suit Grimmjow just fine. Their lockers were at opposite ends, Grimmjow in his corner, Ichigo in the other, and the blue-haired man seemed content to ignore him, aside from the occasional side jab that was flung in his direction whenever the bluenet was handing out a round of abuse. Most of the time Ichigo did his thing, talked to the other team members, but it was impossible to ignore the man completely. Between that jet blue hair and those soul swallowing eyes, he was fucking magnificent. But somewhere in his young life the bluenet's personality had gone for a serious shit.

Their first game working together on the same line had sparked almost immediate frustration in Ichigo, and if their post game argument was any indication, it had pissed off the bluenet as well.

The bulk of the team had already made their way out of the building, running home to their wives or hot dates by the time Ichigo was showered and changed back into his street clothes. They'd won the game, thanks to a lone goal by Ichigo late in the third period. No thanks to the Sexta though. He was infuriating to play with. Ichigo had yelled at him to pass off the puck several times and he hadn't. Instead, Grimmjow had taken the shots and they had been blocked. He'd wasted several of Ichigo's good scoring chances, and Ichigo had let him know it out on the ice. Grimmjow had merely barked back something obnoxious that Ichigo was certain was a physical impossibility.

Barely a glance had been exchanged between the two men after the game and now all Ichigo wanted to do was go home, put his feet up, and relax. He had two days off before he'd have to deal with the bluenet's attitude problem again.

Or so he thought. Ichigo turned the corner and his heart nearly clamoured out of his throat at the sight of the man leaning heavily against the wall of the corridor just outside the dressing room door. Grimmjow's head came up, and he fixed on Ichigo like he was an injured bird.

His eyes were ice cold, expression hard and serious. Even though he was showered, styled and changed into casual clothes, he looked angry and intimidating. His arms were folded across his chest. His stance, and the wrinkled black leather of his thick, hooded, winter jacket which hung open over an equally dark shirt, gave him a look that meant all business.

Even his hair screamed aggressive, clawed bangs reaching out to grab at Ichigo.

Grimmjow sneered inwardly as he observed the shorter man's posture, watching it change in a flash from nonchalant to alert. He had the fucking kid alone. And he seemed to have his attention.

Ichigo was watching him with a wary eye as he made to skirt past the bluenet who had strategically placed himself so that the orangette had to either pass him by or take the long way around to the parking lot. Grimmjow stepped away from the wall.

“You're something else you know that?” he said lowly.

Ichigo stopped and turned, brows furrowing and one eye narrowing into an offended glare.

“Excuse me? I'm something else?”

Another step forward by the larger man and Ichigo was suddenly stuck, back against the opposite wall, how he'd gotten there a complete mystery to him.

“Let me fucking 'splain a little something to you, Kurosaki.” Grimmjow jabbed a stiff finger into Ichigo's chest, half hoping the kid would explode and take a swing. Then it would be a fucking free for all. And that was just how Grimmjow wanted it.

“The Soul Reapers are my team. Got it?”

Ichigo made a choked off sound but said nothing as the bluenet growled down at him from a distance that was far too close for Ichigo's liking.

“You think you can just drop in from the minors and take over? Bullshit. You ain't the hero here. You don't go out there giving out orders an'expectin' the rest of us to kiss your lily white ass like yer some sorta big shot.”

“I'm not...”

“Quit acting like the fucking team captain! Kensei's the captain, not you!”

“I don't...”

“I may be stuck out there protecting your pretty little ass, but don't think I'm gonna stand by and let you act like the goddamn king of Serietei.”

Grimmjow knew it sounded pretentious, and strange, two ass references and all, but he needed to say something, anything to vent the anger that was building up like a negative charge in every part of his body. Just standing in front of the orange-haired player was forcing him to bend his restraint to the limits, to hold back and not just grab a fist full of that orange ass hair and haul him off his feet so he could 'splain things eye to eye, make sure his message was clear.

But that was the part that really stressed Grimmjow out, that he wasn't even entirely sure what his grievances with Kurosaki were. He thought he knew. He really thought he did, but whenever he tried, he couldn't seem to put it into words to make the kid understand. And he could see the wheels turning behind the orangette's eyes right now. Insult. Defiance. Contempt. The kid didn't get it at all.

Grimmjow watched Ichigo's mouth part as he took in a breath. One wrong word from the orange-haired man and things were going to get ugly.

“Yo, Ichi! Great game m'man!” Renji's loud voice broke through the lull before Ichigo could gather enough wits and words to retaliate.

Grimmjow's head snapped around, startled. Where the fuck did they come from?

“Yeah, way to win it, buddy!” Shinji chimed in. “C'mon! We're going to the Shoten for a pint. You gotta come. I'm buyin'.”

Azure eyes widened then narrowed in annoyance as his quiet conversation with the orange head was suddenly interrupted. Was it intentional? He couldn't be sure, and Kurosaki was already being pulled away from him and hazarding a dark glance back at the bluenet as he was dragged down the hall.

“You comin' Grim?” Shinji asked over his shoulder, a slight coolness in his tone that said he wasn't truly asking.

Grimmjow shook his head slowly, face set in a stoney glower, and watched silently as his teammates paraded down the corridor and celebrated Ichigo's loan goal. As it dawned on him that they had just undermined everything he'd said to the kid, his jawbone clenched so hard it nearly fused into one.

* * * * *

“Dammit. I gotta go back,” Ichigo muttered, stopping short before being jerked forward again by the crook of his arm.

“Oh hohoho. No you don't my orange haired lemming,” Renji stated firmly.

“No. I haveta go back and tell that fucker off,” Ichigo argued, his anger only now beginning to peak.

“Ichigo. Did you not see the look on Jaegerjaquez's face?” Shinji asked, pale brows jumping in disbelief. “You don't mess with him when he looks like that, 'less of course you got the craving for hospital food. You don't, do you?” 

“Keh.” Ichigo snorted at the implication that he should actually fear the bluenet. “As if he could. And where the hell does he get off telling me how to act? The guy's such a douche.”

“Yeah,” Renji nodded thoughtfully. “Sometimes. But he's got a valid point this time, Ichigo.”

“Ya Ichi. You're not squeaky clean on this.”

“Hmmph.” Yeah. Well. Maybe some of what the obnoxious bluenet has said had the tiniest element of truth in it. Ichigo had made some suggestions to the forward during their game that may have sounded a little bossy. But the blue-haired headcase needed to hear it. So he could just suck it up.

Ichigo couldn't help his nature. Throughout his life, the role of leader always seemed to fall on his shoulders. He had a natural affinity for sports in general, a knack for finding openings and exploiting them. He had been the assistant captain of his hockey team three years running, and had been made captain in his last year.

Ichigo may have had the skill, but he had to credit his success to the man who had spent countless hours training him these past few years. Urahara Kisuke, coach of the Reaper's farm team, had taken a special interest in Ichigo from the start, giving him drills that went beyond standard training practices, while spending extra time with him on the ice. Urahara had claimed he wanted Ichigo to harness his potential, to push himself beyond what he thought he could do, but learning from the man had been as aggravating as trying to catch a fly with chopsticks.

Half the time, the cryptic bastard didn't even tell Ichigo what exactly he was supposed to be doing when they battled it out on the ice. He seemed to block every damn shot Ichigo threw at him with nothing more than his grin.

There were few things as frustrating as being told you could do something, but not being told how to do it. But that was all part of Urahara's method. He didn't believe in spoon feeding. He'd always maintained that one could never fully master a technique if at least a part of it didn't come from oneself. 

But the orangette's efforts had paid off in spades, and now Ichigo's hockey stick was like an extra limb. Ichigo didn't often break his sticks, but whenever he did, he treated each new stick as if it were an extension of himself. He even named them, talked to them in his head, thanked them. He'd never told anybody that, of course. And it was a silly name, one he'd picked up from some anime he'd watched as a kid, but it worked for him. On some level, he'd always related to the character.

Ichigo stopped at the rows of doors that led to the player's section of the brightly lit parking lot of the arena. He turned and let his eyes wander back down the long white corridor.

Grimmjow was gone. He wondered briefly if there was a chance that they could find any conceivable way to related to one another.

“Yo, Ichi!” Renji shouted from outside the open door. “Let it go man! Beer and ladies are waitin'!”

Could they? Nah. Guy was a jerk.


	5. Chapter 5

It was a test. It had to be.

Some sort of spiritual assessment to see if Grimmjow had the balls to make it to the afterlife without taking a wrong turn and taking a nosedive into the basement for eternity.

Every word uttered between them seemed destined to derail into a war of immutable wills. And each minor confrontation merely stoked the fires, made their disdain for one another that much more pure, their dislike that much more intense. Grimmjow wasn't even looking for resolution anymore. There didn't seem to be much point. It was impossible to win against a man who was clearly even more stubborn than himself.

Even without words, those defiant brown eyes spoke volumes. He could see the judgement behind that visored face every time they stepped onto the ice. They were never meant be on the same side. If felt like they'd been at odds in some other lifetime, like they'd been pitted against each other, and each one only too happy to take up the challenge. That's how it felt.

A couple of times, as he pulled on his jersey and risked a subtle sideways glance at the man who made his hackles rise to untold heights, Grimmjow had to stop and ask himself if he was looking forward more to the game, or the possibility of having a run-in with Ichigo, no matter how trite the reason.

If he thought back on it, the kid had aroused Grimmjow's wary nature from day one, though back then he had absolutely no idea what it was about the kid that irked him. It was gut instinct, and he went with it. Grimmjow had dropped in on the team at the start of the season, quietly, a few times, to watch as they practised while his ankle had healed. He wanted to see how his team was doing and check out the newcomer. And he'd decided from the start to keep his distance from the new Reaper, feel him out, like he did with everyone he met. But the moment he'd laid eyes on him, something had somersaulted in his gut and he'd sported an instant hate-on for the orangette. And now he knew why.

Kurosaki just seemed to have a natural ability to stir up the worst side of Grimmjow. Just the sight of that bright orange mess of hair was nearly enough to reduce his composure to that of a man on PCP. There were moments where he could barely hold it together. Ichigo was a downpour on the bluenet's inner world. He ruined Grimmjow's calm waters, churned them up into choppy and turbulent, frothy waves.

Tch. I mean, c'mon. Grimmjow at least took the time to organize himself before going out in public, and this kid looked like he'd just rolled out of bed post orgasm and stuck one piece of bread and a hand in the toaster. Yet it worked, somehow. He didn't even have to try for Christ's sake. He had the looks, the body, the skill, the guts, the luck. The damn brat just made it all look so easy. And now thanks to Grimmjow, he had the protection he needed to outshine the bluenet even more.

When the fuck was Grimmjow going to get his chance to take a bite of victory for a change? Not while he was out there defending the little princess's honour, that's for sure.

And what a fucking joke, being called upon to defend a guy who for all intents and purposes spent most of his time condemning the bluenet and minimizing the value of his efforts. Grimmjow had learned early on to hate people who had the nerve to judge him from their own safe little world outside of his sphere. Besides, the orangette should fucking know better by now.

Grimmjow had always been a bit of a brawler in the minors and occasionally he'd spent more time in the penalty box during a game than he had on the ice. The Hollow's farm team seemed to produce a lot of hot tempers. They nurtured it, to a degree. But Grimmjow's temper didn't need any encouragement.

Part of the reason his parents had scraped and saved to keep him in hockey was so that he could burn off miles of excess energy, bleed off his aggression, keeping him from getting into fights and earning himself a criminal record. It had helped, and Grimmjow was grateful for his parent's insight and for their continuing support. They'd made a wise decision, and Grimmjow owed them a great debt. He couldn't do anything for his old man anymore, but his ma was still the same spitfire she'd always been. She had years ahead of her still, and now that he could afford it, Grimmjow was going to see that she spent them in comfort and style.

Hockey and Grimmjow were definitely a good fit. It gave him everything he wanted, money, respect, pussy, adrenaline, an outlet for his rather explosive temper. The game provided him with an arena where people expected him to lash out, a place where he could legitimately let his inner animal out of its cage.

He wasn't sure where his fiery temperament came from, the ever present anger that always seemed to simmer, laying in wait for a trigger to release it. Both of Grimmjow's parents had been calm, warm and loving people. He remembered himself as a kid quite clearly, even back to when he was just three years old. He was generally a happy little boy, a bit small for his age, but eager to explore the world, find out how it worked, and conquer it. He was about as normal as any kid with bright blue hair could be.

Perhaps though, it was the names he'd been called as he grew, or the bigger kids that picked on him, taking his lunch, shoving his face in the mud, the ones who had acted like they wanted his friendship when they were really just baiting a trap. People couldn't be trusted. That much he had learned. And the only way to stay ahead of predators like that was to become the animal. Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez was never going to be pushed around or locked inside a dumpster again. He trained. He grew. He hardened. By the age of twelve, even the bigger kids avoided him.

Yes, maybe that had an effect on his love of such a violent sport, but that wasn't his only reason for pushing himself so hard. Despite the orange-haired asshole's well known opinion, Grimmjow _did_ want to become a better player, but he had a job to do first. He had to let the other teams know that they couldn't push the Reapers around. They were all tough men in their own rights, but they played a gentleman's game of hockey, and they didn't possess the killer instincts of someone like Grimmjow. So, they got creamed in a physical game. And that's where Grimmjow came in. He had been redundant with the Hollows, the bulk of the team already stacked with hard hitting offensive players, players like Yammy Riyalgo, Ulquiorra Chiffer, Zommari Rureaux, and Grimmjow's personal favourite, Nnoitra Jiruga. The Hollow's had plenty of enforcement, but the Soul Reaper's clearly needed him.

As far as Grimmjow was concerned, there was a certain level of justifiable violence in the game he loved. There were those who came to watch a nice clean good ol' hockey game, but then there were the more vocal element, the spectators who came not only to see the rush to the net and the amazing goals, but who paid to see the bone-breaking hits and the wild fights that usually broke out as teams became frustrated, and hated rivals clashed.

The fans demanded blood and carnage, and Grimmjow provided it. There was no arguing with his place amongst the fan's hearts. The dramatic rise in attendance since Grimmjow had come aboard clearly attested to that.

Grimmjow made hockey fun again.

The blue-haired man was was feeling distinctly cramped now. He'd had free reign during the start of his season, allowed to flex his hockey muscles, enforcing when he felt the need, and scoring and assisting when he had the chance. He still wasn't busting any heads in that field, but every shot, every opportunity, was another lesson learned, and inch by inch he could feel himself improving. All he needed was ice time and practice.

And now the infamous Sexta had been reduced to a fucking babysitter for a spoiled brat.

_Get out there and make sure Kurosaki fucking Ichigo doesn't get hurt? Yes, coach._

_You want me to lick his bag while I'm out there? No? Just trail around after him instead of playing hockey? Oh sure. No problem coach._

_Oh, and coach, would you like to suck MY balls? No? Well, if you change your mind..._

_Che._

Grimmjow was already breathing heavily as he leaned the weight of his body hard onto his left leg and swung around behind the net on his ninth pass around the the rink, the muscles in his calves and thighs beginning to stretch and loosen from his warm up exercises.

It wasn't the physical exertion that had his blood pumping or caused his breath to quicken. The bluenet was too high-energy and far too well conditioned to even begin to feel tired yet. It was the sight of bright orange hair jutting out from beneath the black helmet, like the sun teasing from behind dark clouds that got him, and the taunting brush of cool air from the person who had just passed him, so close that they nearly touched, that set the bluenet on edge.

He watched the Reaper's number fifteen pull away from him and disappear down the ice. Kurosaki was toying with him. He was still obviously pissed after their little conference in the hall the other night. But if he thought that he could bait Grimmjow by overtaking him during practice in some pathetic little attempt at a race, he was so wrong. It took a lot more than being passed in a warm-up to stir up Grimmjow's bite reflex.

Grimmjow scowled, taking the next corner sharply and raising a fine mist of ice crystals into the air as he hooked his blades into the ice. Clearly, their quiet talk hadn't worked, and Kurosaki still needed to get a clue. Well, Grimmjow might get a chance to give the kid a little _reminder_ today. He grinned as he finished circling behind the the net at the other end of the rink.

All the men were on the ice preparing to go through their routine of practice drills. After that, they would split into teams and run through some plays. That's when Grimmjow would strike. It wouldn't be much, just a little nudge to refresh the orangette's memory so he wouldn't forget just what it was that Grimmjow was protecting him from. Ungrateful little brat.

Nearly an hour later, the Reaper's coach yelled out a series of names, assigning the players into smaller teams, and Grimmjow perked up, delighted to hear Kurosaki's name in the group that he was going to play against. The little shit had been nothing more than an annoying stumbling block and a self possessed egotist to work with for the past two weeks, and it was time for Grimmjow to let off some steam. If the kid thought he didn't like working _with_ him, then Grimmjow would give him a taste of what it was really like to go _against_ him.

  
  


  
  


 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Ichigo was dog tired.

He had no desire to set even one single aching toe on the ice after a gruelling three-plus hours of practice. It was somewhere after the second hour of puke inducing skating drills and the extra sets of demanding conditioning exercises that Ichigo had become convinced that the coach was _hell bent_ on killing off every member of his beloved hockey team. The man claimed the extra push was to help 'whip you boys into shape'. But, it felt a lot more like penance, and even the hardiest players were scowling and beginning to grumble.

Ichigo stifled a yawn and reached down to rub at one of his calves as he sat on the bench awaiting his turn. It had begun to ache and twitch, and he straightened his leg, catching the muscle and working it with a rough hand through his thick hockey socks as it threatened to go into spasm. He growled as he rubbed the offending limb until it finally relaxed. They were only allowed to sit for a few minutes at a time so that their muscles didn't begin to stiffen, and Ichigo was determined to use every second of that time to catch his breath and gather up his remaining energy.

Fuck. This couldn't be over soon enough. He was so tiiiirred. And he had planned to do so many things this afternoon. A mile long list of to do's was folded up in the sleeve of his wallet and waiting for his attention. He huffed as he rested uncomfortably in a puddle of sweat on the bench, grabbing a hand towel and mopping the moisture from his forehead before it could drip down into his eyes and burn. So many things he wanted to get done. But, based on the way his muscles were already burning, unless he was a masochist, his day was thoroughly shot.

He'd be surprised if he even had the energy to eat once he got home. The only things that even held any appeal at all at the moment was the idea of a hot bath of epsom salts and then bed. A bath was out of the question, though. He'd drown in it for sure. And he should probably go to the clinic and get a post practice massage to help keep his muscles from tightening and cramping but he was certain he'd end up asleep on the table. And there was no way he'd be able to wake up enough to drive home after that if he did.

Ichigo jerked when somebody shoved him in the shoulder.

"Yo, space case. Wake up already. Our group's up."

Ichigo swivelled his head towards the blond haired man who was standing beside him and threw him an irritated look. Shinji was grinning, obviously enjoying his own personal joke at Ichigo's expense as usual.

"Oh. God," Ichigo groused. "Let's just do this so I can go to bed."

He watched Shinji's smile widen then suddenly turn down as the blond slowly climbed over the boards. Ichigo smirked. It made the obnoxious grin a little easier to take, knowing that even though the blond appeared to be in good spirits, he was actually in just as much pain as Ichigo.

Ichigo forced his muscles into motion and managed to haul his leg over the boards, and miraculously, the other one as well. His only solace was that the practice from hell was nearly over. They were wrapping up their group sessions, and Ichigo's team of five and their opponents were the last to go.

He skated into position, already aware of the play the coach wanted them to run through. Moments later the puck was dropped and Ichigo's side had control as planned. The other side's goal was to stop their attack, regain control of the puck and score. The play lasted a couple of minutes and ran without a hitch, the other side eventually wrestling the small black disc away from Ichigo's group and putting it in the net. Now it was his side's turn to steal the puck. They lined up once more and the whistle blew.

A few seconds into the play, the puck was passed to Ichigo who tore up the centre of the rink, catching the puck on his stick. He picked up speed, steering the puck expertly around one of his rival players as he avoided an offence-man with ease. He passed off the puck and cut across the ice to the right, avoiding a defence-man and coming in along the boards as the puck was slapped across the rink back to him. He could see a piece of the net now from this angle. This was his chance. Ichigo drew back his stick and prepared to let fly, and suddenly, the puck was gone.

Ichigo swivelled around to see sparkling blue eyes and a self satisfied grin. A whistle called the play to a stop.

"You lose summthin'?"

"Grimmjow," Ichigo muttered bitterly. Why was it always Grimmjow? It almost always seemed to be the bluenet that caught Ichigo during practice plays and shut him down. It was infuriating.

"Mmm. I like the way you say my name whenever I steal the puck from you," the bluenet hummed, leaning in close enough so that only Ichigo could hear him. The Sexta turned and skated away, still grinning and leaving Ichigo to melts holes in the ice as he stared at it, trying to figure out where the heck the bluenet had even come from that time. And what the hell was with the bedroom talk? Sometimes Grimmjow had a way about him that unsettled the orangette. He oozed sex appeal. No doubt about that, but did he really have to wield it like a weapon and dump it all over Ichigo?

"Alright men." the coach yelled across the ice. "Let's try it again. We'll do this over until we get it right."

Ichigo seethed internally, but he had to give the blue-haired forward his due credit. For all of the neanderthal's bad points, he did have skills, like the ability to keep pace with nearly every other player in the league. And the bluenet just never seemed to tire. In practice, Ichigo could never shake him loose. The guy was like frigging static cling.

He sighed as they lined up again, trying to regain his focus. That timber was still ringing in his ears as he braced his stick against the ice. Just as the puck was about to drop, Ichigo glanced ahead and to his left to catch Grimmjow staring at him. And then, the bluenet blew him a kiss. Ichigo flinched. Uh-oh. That was either another attempt to fluster him even more, or a boorish warning. The orangette scowled and tried to shrug it off. He did not have time for Grimmjow's games. He was tired and fed up, and his goal was to get a goddamn goal and go home to bed. Screw Grimmjow and his childish mind-fuck.

An instant later, the whistle blew and Ichigo was repeating the manoeuvres again. He veered along the boards and caught the puck, but he didn't get the chance to wind up this time as two hundred pounds of hateful bluenet came barrelling at him with one goal clearly in mind. To crush the life out of him. Ichigo barely had time to brace for the hit as Grimmjow ran into him hard enough to lift him off his feet. The bluenet seemed hell bent on grinding every part of him into the boards, using his whole body to deliver his painful message. Ichigo grunted in surprise as he felt his ribs creak under the impact. Then, as suddenly as he was there, Grimmjow was gone again, leaving Ichigo to drop to the ice.

He barely heard the whistle go as he lay there catching his breath through gritted teeth, currently his soul focus in life. Breath under control again, Ichigo shook his head in a futile attempt to detach the glowing celestial bodies that seemed to have fallen into orbit around him. He cringed. The side to side motion was not the great idea he thought it would be. Ichigo pushed against the ice in an effort to lever himself up, but every move he made seemed to accelerate their movements. He grunted, and instead resigned himself to just lying there on the ice and being relatively still, taking deep breaths as the disorientation slowly passed.

He wasn't a stranger to having his bell rung, and by comparison, this wasn't bad at all. The dazed feeling would pass if he just kept quiet for a moment or two. It was no problem really when he thought about it. He could use the time to think of ways to pay back the man who'd just laid him out.

The slicing sound of sharp steel blades shearing away the first layers of ice next to the orangette's ear cut sharply into Ichigo's quiet time. A light mist of cool dampness settled on his cheek where the ice had sprayed up from anonymous blades and drifted onto him.

"Ichigo. You okay?"

Oh. It was Shinji.

"Peachy," the orangette muttered, head resting sideways on his right glove, while the right side of his body lay pressed up against the boards.

"Soooo... You gonna get up?" Shinji bent forward, both hands on his knees, his head leaning to the side and falling in line with Ichigo's so he could better view the contemplative expression on the brown-eyed player's face. Something in the hard brown eyes told Shinji that whatever Ichigo was considering as he lay there probably wouldn't amount to anything good. And he had an idea just who the orangette was thinking about.

"I haven't decided," Ichigo answered flatly. "S'the coach gonna make us keep practising?"

Shinji glanced over towards the bench to where their esteemed coach appeared to be praying to a deity in between yelling at a somewhat bored looking blue-haired offence-man. The other players were milling around the bench, a few of them taking the initiative and heading off the ice for a well deserved shower.

"Mmm... nah. I think he's done torturing us for now." Shinji grinned widely and reached down to help Ichigo to his feet.

He skated back to the bench gingerly, Shinji jabbering away by his side. He was keeping the conversation chipper and casual but Ichigo knew the over-protective blond was just checking him out. Shinji lead him to the team doctor who asked Ichigo a couple of questions and then brushed him aside, and Ichigo was relieved when the smaller man lagged behind to talk to the coach's assistant.

Ichigo trudged wearily down the long corridor towards their lockers, a hot shower, and sweet freedom. The room was oddly quiet when he entered it. Most of the men were silently stripping down to bare skin and taking turns quickly rinsing off the day's accumulation of grease and sweat.

Ichigo couldn't help but let his eyes stray towards the man walking naked out of the shower room. No. Not walking. Fucking parading. Tanned skin seemed stretched almost too tight over thick layers of muscle as water droplets glistened on the smooth wet surface. Ichigo scowled. He didn't look as tired as the rest of the men, except for the slight limp, Ichigo noticed. That ankle injury he'd sustained in his pre-season car accident was obviously still plaguing him, but Ichigo would never have guessed that with what he'd seen almost daily from the bluenet's performance on the ice.

The orangette tore his gaze away from the only man he knew in his life who actually sparked an annoying case of body envy in him. He was far too exhausted to give a single shit about it right now though, and he began removing his gear until he was down to his skivvies, then they too were tossed aside. The air in the room felt cool against his damp skin now that the layers of gear were gone, and he sighed in relief. He grabbed a towel and let it hang loose in his hand as he trekked towards the shower stalls, unaware that a pair of sapphire eyes were watching him, studying his back, dropping down to the lighter skin of his softly rounded bare rear before tearing away.

Grimmjow looked down at his grey tee shirt and fumbled with it for a moment, suddenly finding the simple task of getting it right side out and front to back nearly impossible. Kurosaki didn't even look like he'd been affected by Grimmjow's love tap. He was too busy trying to ignore the bluenet to death while parading his unmarred, lean physique into the showers just to show Grimmjow that he didn't matter.

The bluenet glanced up in mild irritation at the sound of one of his team mates mangling his name.

"Grimmy, ease the fuck up will ya?" Shinji admonished as he passed by the bluenet. "We kind of need the kid in one piece."

"Yeah, so don't go breaking him already." Shiro cautioned as well as he strutted by, pale and naked, towards the showers.

Grimmjow's initial reaction was to unleash a slew of insults on his teammates and tell them to go fuck their mothers, but he quickly thought better of it. It wouldn't be smart to go alienating himself. Though he did tend to keep his distance and his interactions light and casual most of the time, he generally got along with most of the guys. Except for one. And he'd quite thoroughly had it up to the tips of his blue locks with playing Mr. Nice Guy.

With a mouth like Kurosaki's, the bluenet initially thought he could afford to hold back and let the kid hang himself instead. Eventually, Kurosaki would step on enough toes, and the team would turn against him. All Grimmjow would have to do was wait and keep his temper in check and let nature take its course. That was the plan. At least, it had been. But it seemed that Ichigo's low opinion and haughty attitude were almost solely directed at Grimmjow. He really couldn't take much more of the kid. Sooner or later, something was going to give.

Ichigo stood under the steady stream of hot water and sighed as it pelted against his skin. It felt like absolute heaven as it gently massaged his abused muscles. He knew others were still waiting to get in though, so after only a minute he twisted the tap and shut off the valve. He shuffled the towel quickly over his wet skin before wrapping it low on his waist and making his way back to his locker.

The bluenet was changed, he noted, and gathering his things, putting everything into his sports bag but his skates. Ichigo's eyebrows drew together as he observed the blue-haired player's post-game routine. The guy was odd. The team had people to wash their stuff for them, but Grimmjow took his gear home with him all the time, like he was protecting it and didn't want anybody touching his stuff. Keh. As if he was that special. The guy was just irrational and territorial. Oh yeah. Definitely. Ichigo still couldn't quite believe the bluenet had actually had the nerve to tell Ichigo that this was _his_ team.

The Sexta's head came up and Ichigo narrowly dodged blue eyes that he was sure had latched onto him. The orangette was confident that he'd made sure to look away before the man could catch him staring. It wouldn't do to let him know that he'd managed to get Ichigo's attention.

But he had. And Ichigo already knew exactly what he was going to do in retaliation for the Sexta's earlier threat and for his excessively hard hit.

Absolutely nothing. He was just going to continue to be his apparently loveable self. Just do what came naturally to him. It seemed that every single thing he did or said got underneath the bluenet's skin, and so, he would easily win this little competition if he just kept on as he was. The thought made him smile as he dropped his towel and scrounged for his street clothes.

It made him smile, and then it made him frown. Every now and then, something about the idea of the bluenet hating him so completely flared up like some internal rash and irritated him, and he would admit, on rare occasions it bummed him out. He really wasn't used to being disliked for the most part. And the few people who'd actually hated him growing up really didn't matter. They were just thugs and bullies who teased him because he looked different. But getting along with the blue-haired terror mattered. Their conflict affected their job. They needed to get along for the team's sake. They had to like each other for the greater good. Ichigo snorted as he tightened the strings of his black joggers.

Greater good his ass. Grimmjow just needed to stay out of his way. But he'd made it clear that he wouldn't. Well, if Grimmjow _thought_ he hated Ichigo now, then Ichigo would _really_ give him a reason to hate him. The orangette considered that line of thought for a moment as he re-laced his running shoe for the third time.

No. Ichigo would be himself, and if Ichigo knew Grimmjow at all, that would be enough to break him.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

A thick snowfall blanketed the landscape of Seireitei as Kurosaki Ichigo trudged across the parking lot towards his hometown's arena.

It looked like the perfect day. Crystal clear. Bright and still.

A limitless, blue sky spread itself out above the orange haired hockey player. He squinted against the daylight as he paced across the lot. The sun's reflection on the fresh snow was so bright it was nearly blinding. That was the thing about winter days. Even though the picture perfect scene always gave the illusion of sun and warmth, it was in fact very cold.

It was late afternoon, four pm to be precise about it, and the sun was already bearing down on the horizon. And despite the fact that a lazy wind was beginning to blow, signalling a change in the weather, and slipping her icy fingers right down the front of his open jacket, Ichigo did nothing to prevent the goosebumps from raising the nearly invisible hairs on his chest. It was refreshing. Invigorating. He was enjoying it, savouring the chill, because in less than three hours, he would be nothing but hot, sweaty, fatigued, and frustrated.

A cloudy apparition formed in the air as he sighed aloud. It curled and spread like steam in front of him, then vanished as if it had never been.

Ichigo wished for a moment that he could perform the same trick, take a day off, or two, or three, or move... to another city, another team... hell... another career.

The thin layer of snow that had ducked beneath the blade of the plough squeaked beneath the souls of his winter boots. Brown eyes shut for a moment. He was being ridiculous... a child. He did not have the luxury of being a child anymore. Ichigo opened his eyes and looked to the thing that usually lifted his spirits, and he snorted at the irony, that another glance up to the purest blue sky had only served to pull his mood lower. That mask of blue was just an image for the world to see, a shell, a false beauty that hid what really lay behind it... a cold, violent, empty space. Blackness and distance. Unreachable.

Annoying.

Ichigo shook his head and looked up at the rounded building that dominated the landscape ahead of him. Hockey. He had to keep his mind on hockey. Just that, and only that. Okay, then.

So far, Ichigo's day had been good. Well. Nothing bad had happened, anyway. But he had a pretty damn good idea how the _night_ would end. Another loss was practically inevitable. It was a terrible attitude to go into a game with, but he was struggling just to keep his head straight these days. In fact, he did his level best not to even think of hockey until he was at the stadium.

He heaved his gear higher up onto his shoulder as he avoided a slick patch of ice.

“Nice Ichigo,” he mumbled. “Avoid your problems, why don't you?”

_And why the hell not? They'll still be there tomorrow_

_Jesus Christ. Listen to him._

He snorted, then glanced around, eyes scanning the parking lot in a transient burst of concern to see if anyone had noticed.

Nothing.

Ichigo growled to himself, shrugging further into his jacket out of habit, and kept walking. The lot was nearly empty except for a few cars that had pulled in just ahead of him. He was one of the first to arrive. He didn't want to be here, but he needed time to gear up and get mentally ready for the game. He needed to focus. And as soon as it was over, he'd stuff it all back into his hockey bag and throw it in the corner and think about the other things in his life that mattered. Like his family.

Christmas was nearing, and though it was still a week away, it seemed like the day was already upon them. He had to admit, he was excited about the season, despite the intolerable advertising campaigns and Christmas jingles that had been jamming up the airwaves of every television and radio since practically the day after Halloween.

Ichigo had always liked Christmas as a rule. The time he spent with his family... well, his sisters... he always considered time well spent. And this year he could afford to get them the presents they really wanted, instead of sticking to the family rule of forty dollars or less. Ichigo's father had always been a bit of a stickler over giving presents. He'd made it a firm rule not to spend outrageous amounts of money on special occasions, because gifts, he said, were about the thought you put into it, about showing that you knew a person and cared enough to pay attention to the things they enjoyed, not how much you spent. Well, his old man may be a bit 'round the bend most of the time, but he'd gotten things right as far as raising his kids was concerned. They'd all turned out pretty darn good in Ichigo's opinion, and they did know how to make each other happy on forty dollars or less.

Too bad Ichigo was going to break that rule this year. And there was no way his dad could throw a fit about it either.

Things weren't always sweet at the clinic and sometimes Isshin had to make small sacrifices to give his family all the things they needed, like college tuition. Ichigo knew his dad had set up college funds for both the girls, but it wouldn't even cover half of everything. And though the girls were both seventeen now and had jobs of their own, it would still be a struggle. Ichigo didn't want his sisters to worry about payments and jobs while they attended classes, nor did he want them to be saddled with debt after college, so he was going to make a hefty donation of his own to each of the girls' funds.

On second thought, his dad _would_ pitch a fit, and he would probably go and scratch at that insufferable painting of their late mother, whining on and on about how Ichigo was now acting like the man of the house, yadda yadda. Well, someone had to be. He smiled to himself as he crossed the parking lot, content to be lost in thought. But, as Ichigo neared the outer doors, and the massive building loomed ever larger, his smile faded.

He had another home game tonight, and on no conceivable level was Ichigo fucking looking forward to it. Not even for the workout. For the first time in a long time, the last thing he felt like doing was playing hockey.

They were barely two and a half months into the season, and the team was playing like it had lost an engine. Things weren't looking good for the Reapers at all. Not at all. Ichigo, for one, was off his game. His usual average of twelve shots on net per game, and at least two or three goals, had fallen in just a few weeks down to a miserable five and fuck all. Ichigo had been towing the line in penalties lately too. His normally only moderately volatile temper was now a complete disaster.

And despite Ichigo's best efforts to avoid the humiliation of a shut out, their last two _away_ games had resulted in exactly that. They didn't score a single goal. They were fucking skunked, and by teams that by all rights they shouldn't have had any trouble beating. Last night's home advantage win against the Hollow's had given the team a small boost, but their confidence needed a lot more than just a one goal win in the closing minutes of a neck and neck game to be restored.

Ichigo was at a complete loss. He wasn't used to sucking this bad. It just wasn't his style. He almost always found a way to break through the other team's defences and take down their goalie. His shots on goal weren’t the highest in the NHL but usually, when he saw an opening and took a shot, it invariably found its way in. There wasn't a goalie in the league that wasn't a little bit shaken when they saw number fifteen cross the blue line into their territory and wind up for a slap shot.

Or at least that's how it had been until recently. Ichigo was in some kind of slump. His timing was off. His temper was short. And his nerves were shot. Something was definitely upsetting Ichigo's and the team's mojo, and Ichigo could point to at least one giant, blue, upsetting thing, a key source of friction, the one player who was the nails to Ichigo's chalkboard. By now, Ichigo was so far off his game that he wasn't entirely sure if getting away from the sexta would even help, but Ichigo had asked for a change in his lineup anyway. And surprise surprise, the team's coach wouldn't hear it. He felt like he'd hit a brick wall, but he wasn't alone.

The whole team was in an upheaval, and they needed to start winning some games if they had a hope in hell of ever making the playoffs.

Last night had been one giant fuck up after another, until the dying minutes of the game when Ichigo actually managed to break the tie and slide a shot past the Hollow's goalie. And he'd done it after Grimmjow had been kicked out. He felt rather vindicated by that fact, but he wondered if it wouldn't somehow come back to bite him in the ass. Maybe he was being paranoid, but he swore up and down that Grimmjow had given him one mean look as he left the ice after pummelling Ulquiorra into it. He was pretty sure Grimmjow was going to find a way to blame him. He always did. The Sexta was known for throwing world class hissy fits when things didn't go his way. Some might call it hockey, but Ichigo knew better. The blue haired enforcer often vented his frustrations on the other team's players. You could almost rate his anger by the body count.

And from Ichigo's recent personal experience, the enforcer wasn't shy about taking it out on his own teammates as well.

In a round about way... more aptly... a passive aggressive bitch way... Grimmjow had taken some of his ire out on Ichigo last night. And he had a rather embarrassing set of bruises in a very personal place to show for it.

..........

  
The cold metal frames of the doors to the building screeched in protest as they dragged against each other, then closed, and the team's private parking area was again devoid of movement and sound. A minute or two passed before the wintery peace was once gain breached, this time by the distant deep rumble of eight cylinders and a large exhaust pipe.

A lone bird, perched atop a light post, took flight as the guttural growl drew closer.

Grimmjow swung into the parking lot and kicked the gears of his sports car down with careless disregard as he brought the vehicle to a hard stop in what he assumed to be the general vicinity of his usual spot. He couldn't quite make out the lines between his space and the next with the dusting of snow that had settled since the plough had been by, but as of now that was of little concern to him.

The engine continued to idle while his right hand remained clasped tight around the black leather clutch as if it were a vibrating lifeline. He wasn't really here until he let it go. Hell, he might as well have been napping at the wheel on the drive over. He was so fucking distracted, he barely even remembered getting here.

Grimmjow growled to himself inside the vehicle. He had half a mind to slip the clutch back into first and just keep on driving, but he was under contract. It was a job. And he was no flake. But did they even need him?

The minute Grimmjow had left last night's game, the party had started. The Reapers had won. Life had gone on without him, only better.

Tonight was day two of back to back home games. Grimmjow had been ejected from the game last night, and no amount of creative diversion could unlock the jaws of his mind from the grudge it had been set on nursing. Grimmjow had woken up late in the morning just as disgruntled as he'd been when he'd finally gone to bed the night before.

He'd done his laundry, failed at jacking off, tried to watch a movie, then ended up pacing holes in his carpet before eventually heading out to the gym down the street and working out his not so repressed anger and sexual issues on the punching bags in the corner. Thank god the place was open late and virtually empty. His patience for people was drained dry. He needed to be left alone to let his grievances out on the sand hard, black bag. Not that his workout had even scratched the surface, let alone made a dent in his sour mood. He'd wailed on the leather bags until his knuckles ached, but there was no relief for it. The bag was a lousy replacement, and he couldn't take his frustrations out on the one person he wanted to. The image of the orange haired root of his problems was consuming, and the beating he wanted to lay on him was filling every conceivable space in his head.

Grimmjow pulled the keys from the ignition. Just the thought of seeing Kurosaki again sent an unpleasant shudder of uncontrolled anger careening through his gut. He wanted that punching bag again, but he had to shake it off. He had to get his anger under control. This game was important. The media and his team would be watching, even more so because of his less than stellar performance last night.

His father might even be watching. But he had given him nothing to be proud of.

The curve of the steering wheel was still cool as it pressed against his forehead. The dashboard rattled at the impact as the side of his fist came down hard.

He was coping. He was coping fine.

“Dammit,” he muttered.

Grimmjow shoved the door open, hauled himself out of the driver's seat and slammed the door shut before heading to the trunk for his gear. He didn't know what surprises tonight's game was going to hold but he had a feeling, just an odd feeling, that something was going to come to a head, especially if last night's game against their much loathed opponents, the Hollows, was any indication.

 

_**...Last night's game** _

They'd been fighting tooth and nail for two straight periods, and as they headed into the third, the battle weary Soul Reapers were beginning to feel as demoralized as they were physically exhausted. From the moment the puck had dropped, the Hollows had had them on the defensive. Their strategy, it seemed, was to run the Reapers into the ground with bruising hits and a barrage of aggressive attacks. They were as dirty as ever, and even the referees didn't seem able to catch all the penalties. Dirty distraction tactics were making the reffing difficult, and the Hollow's were getting away with murder.

Shots on net were nearly 30 to 12 with no sign that the Hollows were slowing down. They had always been a dangerous team, but in just a few months, their new coach, Aizen Sosuke, had turned them into soulless animals. Their mandate was to either score or destroy.

And winning or not, they just didn't let up.

The Reaper's blue-eyed enforcer was barely able to keep up with the onslaught. His presence was having little impact, and his frustration was growing visibly. He was far from alone, though.

Even Ichigo's temper was fraying. It was one of the roughest games Ichigo had played in a long time, and the calls against the Hollow's were having little effect on their unsportsmanlike behaviour. Another Reaper was dumped into the corner by an illegal hit, and Ichigo let loose on the referee standing closest to the injured player.

“Hey ref! I thought we were playin' hockey here!” Brown eyes flashed in anger as number fifteen tagged after the referee. “Open your friggin' eyes! That's a five minute penalty!”

According to the ref, though, a two minute penalty was good enough. Ichigo fumed as he left the ice to catch his breath.

His own piss-poor performance and the growing list of bad calls weren't the only things bothering Ichigo as the orangette took a seat along with the rest of the Soul Reapers. He and Grimmjow had been fighting like proverbial cats and dogs all evening. They were just as out of tune as ever but for some reason, the tension between them had risen high enough to melt the very ice they played on.

They were helping out the opposing team more than their own with missed passes and timing that was so far off, even little kids on their first set of skates could have made it look easy. Grimmjow had been no help whatsoever in the first two periods, and Ichigo had been accused of shooting his mouth off as usual when he'd barked at the bluenet to try to play _with_ his teammate for a change. The words Grimmjow had used in response were simply not fit to print.

The end of the first period saw the two rival teammates locked in a heated discussion in the hallway to the locker rooms as players gave them both a wide berth. The blue-haired enforcer had his lips pulled back in a threatening snarl as he and Ichigo faced-off over the same tired disagreements. Accusations were flying back and forth. Finger pointing and denying were in full force. The last of other Reapers shuffled by. They'd seen it before, though not quite so intense as this, but everyone seemed willing to let the two players settle their own problems. No one wanted to get between them.

“I was wide open, and you didn't fucking pass the puck! I coulda scored, asshole!” Grimmjow's arctic blue eyes were staring straight into heated brown as he tried to tear a strip off of Ichigo. Tried, was the operative word. He knew it would only lead to more frustration because Kurosaki was the mouthiest know-it-all Grimmjow had ever had to play with.

“The Hollows were all over you! You never would have made that shot. If I'd passed it, they would've grabbed it and run with it and probably scored another goal on us!”

“Don't you fuckin' tell me what I can do!” Grimmjow drove a gloved finger into Ichigo's shoulder. Something sparked in amber eyes and Ichigo yearned to set his fist against the side of that angular jaw, but the shorter player ignored the jab. If he didn't, there would be a brawl and that would be totally unprofessional, even for them.

“You know what? Quit bitching at me about it. What about the shot you had just before that, huh?”

Grimmjow's scowl turned darker. He knew what Kurosaki was going on about, and he knew he'd blown a good scoring opportunity. And he knew this conversation wasn't going to get him anywhere, but for some inane reason he'd started it anyway.

“Yeah.” Ichigo smirked and nodded at the look Grimmjow was giving him. “You _had_ a chance to score and you didn't take it. Maybe the coach has gone blind and didn't see it, but I did.”

“What're you, the fucking scoring police? I don't give a shit what y-....”

“Well, maybe you should give a shit! You had an easy shot when their goalie went down. If was a fucking gift shot! We could have tied the game right then but you were more interested in fucking rubbing one out!”

The heated conversation seemed to lurch to a sudden and decidedly awkward stop. Grimmjow's snarl fell away, and his angry expression slid into stunned confusion before slowly, gradually, morphing into wary bemusement.

Ichigo cringed as he realized what he'd just said, his tongue full of Novocain, and his brain left scrambling for purchase. But it was too late to pull the words back and reorganize them. They were out.

The silent lull that hung in the air between them, before the bluenet found his voice, stretched from seconds into centuries, until it began to seem to Ichigo that time itself had stopped to see what all the fuss was about.

Grimmjow's head finally listed to the side and one eyebrow twitched upwards while the other one drew low.

“Say what?” he demanded slowly, his voice dropping into a low tone laced with uncertainty and suspicion.The bluenet's whole demeanour seemed stranded, straddling the line between aggression and confusion.

“I mean... rubbing out one of their players!” Ichigo corrected himself at a volume that was much higher than he needed to use to be heard. His blunder and that gravelly tenor were combining in ways that were oddly distressing to the younger man, and he felt his face heat up another ten degrees, flushing yet another shade of angry red as he seethed.

“Fuck! You piss me off!” he snapped.

“Hah!” The bluenet barked into Ichigo's face, taking another step closer and looming in front the shorter man. He cocked his head to the other side and sneered.

“Piss you off,” he began, voice lowering to something taunting yet quietly intimate, “or turn you on?”

Ichigo bristled further at the ludicrous insinuation that he was into men, especially Grimmjow, and he rose onto the balls of his feet, determined to meet the bluenet eye for eye. Ichigo was frankly at a complete loss over his Freudian slip. His stomach was busy trying to turn itself inside out, and the blood in his face was scorching his cheeks, but if he backed down now he would definitely look like a chump.

“Piss. Me. Off,” he growled. Without another word, Ichigo turned and stormed away. He dearly hoped the bluenet wasn't going to take a parting shot. One word. Just one, and was going to lose it.

Grimmjow watched with amused interest as the younger man fled. And that is definitely what it was. Fleeing. Grimmjow had won this argument fare and square. He didn't even care anymore what they were fighting about, or that it hadn't been resolved. He'd won. Didn't matter how he did it, especially against Kurosaki. Winning was all that counted in his books.

Grimmjow frowned as he turned and walked in the same direction. That had been an odd turn of events. He knew he had the goods, but com'on. Seriously. That oddly worded remark had weirded him out for a moment, and he'd nearly drawn a blank. Nearly. He didn't really think the kid was gay or anything, but Kurosaki had just made it so easy. How could he not play with a line like that? And the effect it had on the kid left him feeling deliciously sated, for the moment. Kurosaki had turned seventeen shades of red. It was the best thing that had happened to Grimmjow all week.

He thought about it for a moment, then grinned as he pictured the angry blush and the subsequent clash of orange and red. Yup. It was indeed the highlight. His one regret? He wished he'd had the means to snap a photo with his cell. It would look great blown up and stapled to the locker room ceiling.

....................

  
The second period dragged on and the Reapers were quick to empty the bench and try once again to regroup for the third. It had been just another twenty minutes of... well... same shit, different period.

As soon as the buzzer sounded to signal the end of the second period and the bench had cleared, Grimmjow made a beeline for Ichigo in the hallway once again, catching him on his way through the door to the dressing room, hoping to have words with him before the coach came along.

Ichigo had yelled at him to pass off the puck, but Grimmjow had been winding up for the shot. It was good, goddammit. The goaltender was being screened by his own defence-man, and there was every chance that the puck would slip through. But no. That smarmy shit had screamed Grimmjow's name at the last possible second, and something in the orangette's tenor had seriously thrown Grimmjow for a fucking loop. He'd nearly tripped over his own skates. _The fuck?_

Grimmjow caught up with the shorter player as he straggled behind the team heading into the locker room. He grabbed the shorter man's arm and swung him around.

“Don't distract me like that again, ya little twerp,” Grimmjow snarled. “I _had_ that shot until you fucking threw me off!”

Like a live wire, Ichigo was instantly reactive, so much so that it actually surprised the blue-haired Sexta.

“As if I threw you off!” the younger man barked back. “And you should have passed,” he added, scowling and gesturing wildly with one gloved hand. “I had the whole damn net!”

The bluenet barely heard the younger man's response over the din in his head. He almost regretted saying anything, and he needed to get away from him already or he was going to lose his shit. But, he came here to make a point, and he was going to make it.

“You fucked me, asshole!” Grimmjow hissed. “Do it again, and I'll fuckin' ruin you!” He snarled down at Ichigo, barely snapping his mouth shut before he actually _caved_ to the sudden strong urge to _bite_ the orange-haired man. Instead, he shoved Ichigo roughly aside so that he could enter the change room just as the coach came around the corner.

Ichigo's heart thudded inside his ribcage, and he rubbed his chest where the the bluenet had pushed him. He barely noticed how fast his heart was racing. Instead he rolled his eyes at the bluenet's ridiculous attempt to intimidate him while he watched the retreating man disappear into the crowded locker room, brown eyes taking in the outline of the naturally broad physique that he knew lay disguised under thick layers of gear.

“Kurosaki. What are you standing around for?”

Ichigo flinched as if he was a little kid who'd just been caught doing something bad, and his deep amber eyes swung around towards the gruff voice of the team's coach.

“We need to do some damage control here. Let's go,” the man ordered.

Ichigo abruptly leaned his weight onto his bladed heels, pressing his back into the door frame to let the coach get by before he let himself into the room.

“Alright boys.” The older man's booming voice was dampened by the bodies of Ichigo's team mates as he passed the orangette and moved deep into the change room. “We're down by one point and we've got twenty minutes to fix this. Now, what are we gonna do about it?”

Ichigo straightened up and squared his shoulders, a small smirk making its way onto his face as he followed behind the coach. For such a bad boy, the Sexta was a real comedian. He was going to ruin Ichigo? That was the emptiest fucking threat he'd ever heard.

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

_For such a bad boy, the Sexta was a real comedian. He was going to ruin Ichigo? That was the emptiest fucking threat he'd ever heard....._

_**. . .** _

 

It really shouldn't have come as such a surprise to Ichigo when Grimmjow actually had make good on his threat just a few minutes into the third period.

 

What certainly did come as a genuine surprise to Ichigo though, was that Grimmjow had found away to do it without even lifting a finger. In fact, it was the distinct _lack_ of finger lifting by the bluenet that saw Ichigo in his current predicament.

 

And it had happened just when Ichigo thought things were finally going right. The near stalemate... the slashes and high sticks, and the dirty hits and breakout fights once known as the Reapers verses Hollows hockey game... had actually become a tie game just two minutes into the third. The Reapers captain, Kensei Muguruma, had managed to tuck the puck into the bottom corner of the net while the Hollows were down two men during a tripping and a high-sticking penalty.

 

The Reapers and their fans had cheered but it seemed to Ichigo more like desperate encouragement than celebration. And rightly so. Everyone knew it was a truly sad state of affairs when the Reapers had to have a five on three advantage just to get a goal.

 

It was also unfortunate that Shiro's naturally pale complexion was now marred by an ugly red welt just beneath his left eye. Getting hurt always sucked, but it was part of the game, and the way Ichigo saw it, they were lucky to get the penalty break. And Shiro was lucky to keep his eye.

 

As Ichigo shuffled down the bench to make space for the incoming players, he craned forward and quickly took in the hard, discouraged expressions that made up the faces of the line of Soul Reapers. The truly depressing part was that Shiro's welt didn't stand out at all amongst the faces of his teammates. It actually fit in quite nicely, rounding out the team's collection of split lips, black eyes, missing teeth, a busted nose, as well as the less visible injuries; a twisted ankle, a painful charlie horse, and a broken pinkie.

 

Overall, the team looked like it had been mugged.

 

But booboos aside, the score was now 2-2, and Ichigo figured that if they survived the game long enough, they might even still have a distant chance of winning.

 

 _Winning?_ Ichigo shook his head as he wiggled his helmet firmly into place and stood up from the bench. _Well, what was life without whimsy?_

 

Ichigo hopped over the boards to start his shift and took up his position on the face-off at centre ice. The arena was bursting with constant cheers and thundering music, but Ichigo wasn't giving all the hullabaloo much attention. None of the players were. They had learned to tune it all out when the puck was dropped.

 

Instead, the young forward took mental note of which Hollows were on the ice with him. Ichigo was less banged up than some of the other players, and he wanted to it to stay that way. (And he wanted to keep his teeth.) Even with the sexta as his special bodyguard, he still had to keep his head up and be aware of who was near him at all times. The game had its dangers and you had to play with your head, and even if you did, serious injuries could still happen in a split second.

 

Ichigo risked a hard glance to his right to where Grimmjow was bracing himself, tensed body facing inwards towards Ichigo, stick crossed with his opponent's, waiting for the whistle to start the play. It was clear that the battle for dominance was already in full swing between the sexta and his current opponent, but all Ichigo really saw was the hunger. Though they shouldn't have been, a fierce set of azure eyes were settled on him. A shock of equally brilliant blue hair was slung between them, an unruly piece that had snuck its way out from behind its helmet barrier.

 

Ichigo felt his composure slip just a little bit. He was getting one hell of a mean look, but it was the blue that sucked him in, like a beacon.

 

Every fucking thing blue. He was sick of being hated and he was sick of blue. Ichigo had to draw a deep breath to steady his nerves and ignore it, but he did, and he turned back to his opponent who had lined up in front of him on the face-off.

 

After their awkward conversations during their breaks, Ichigo was already feeling a bit unsettled with the idea of having the large, angry bluenet at his back. But he shrugged off the feeling as best he could and tried to keep his focus. They were still teammates, and at this level of hockey you didn't screw around. In theory anyway.

 

Besides, Ichigo never considered that Grimmjow might intentionally do something against him on the ice.

 

He wouldn't. Right? At least not during a game.

 

He spared another fleeting glance to his right. Yup, that was a menacing look all right, and it hadn't budged from him. The blue-haired headcase was eye stalking him and trying to get under his skin. Well, it wasn't going to work. Ichigo could handle it. He could take anything Grimmjow could throw at him. The real question was, how far would Grimmjow go once they were off the ice?

 

Ichigo frowned as he cast his eyes downward and focused on the blue line that lay trapped beneath the surface of the ice at his feet. He had to get him out of his head, but there he was. On the ice. Beneath the ice.

 

He jerked from his dark reverie, and the muddle of thoughts that Grimmjow's glaring had brought on were roughly shoved aside as the linesman in front of Ichigo skated into place, the puck hidden inside his hands at waste level. With a sudden motion, the official threw the small disc down, and the play started. Ichigo jabbed his stick forward and raked the blade across the ice as he tried to scoop the puck up first and win the face-off.

 

Ichigo was fast, but his opponent, Ulquiorra, was faster. He cursed under his breath as the little black disc slipped out of reach and slid into the hands of the Hollow's. Ichigo instantly jumped into motion. The chase was on and the Reapers were determined to regain control. For the next minute the puck changed hands like a hot potato, leaving both teams spinning as they tried to keep control of the disc long enough to actually do something with it.

 

Ichigo was almost surprised when the puck somehow found its way to him. He was nearing the end of his shift and quite out of breath, but he wasn't going to waste this opportunity as the play moved into the Hollow's end. The fans hollered their encouragement, and Ichigo poured on the speed and raced forward, aware that his blue-haired partner had just taken out a Hollow player. For a few seconds at least, that was one less enemy to worry about.

 

Ichigo crossed the blue line as the Hollow's defence pulled back. Grimmjow had already moved into position, flanking Ichigo and keeping the remaining Hollow's off his back. Out of all of his issues with the larger man, Ichigo couldn't really find fault with his ability to cover Ichigo. When things went right, Grimmjow's was as effective as Hollow bug spray.

 

Now, if Ichigo could just keep himself focused enough to score, things might be alright.

 

Ichigo's body lowered as he rushed towards the net, legs pumping, eyes focused, stick clapping against the ice as it jumped back and forth over the puck. The black disc seemed to hang off the sharp edge of his blade, carried forward in the rush of momentum that was Kurosaki Ichigo coming in for the kill, every muscle trained and responding to his thoughts with flawless precision. He was in the zone. He was in control. The Hollow defence man in front of Ichigo was pulling back, inadvertently screening his own goalie. As far as scoring opportunities went, this was a beauty. Ichigo could see it in his mind's eye, could read the player, sense his responses. He would fake low and the defence man would drop to screen the puck.

 

Finally, Ichigo had control of the puck and a clean shot.

 

For a moment, the old feeling was back, and hockey seemed to hold the promise of being fun again. Even though he was still moving fast, everything slowed. Around him battles were raging. Man on man, fighting for positions. Ichigo had enough space and enough time to wind up for a shot. He was in the clear. Maybe they could win this. He raised his stick to launch the puck at the opening he saw. If he could just get a goal, they could turn this game around. He could grab his career by the horns and turn it back around. Maybe he and Grimmjow could even...

 

Ichigo only had a split second to brace for the hit.

 

Even though he had caught the guy in his peripheral, coming in fast from the side, the orangette barely had enough time for a mental, oh shit, before he felt the impact. Bodies and limbs connected like hammer and nail, slamming Ichigo into the boards and twisting him awkwardly at the waste. One moment he thought he'd taken the hit without incident. The next moment, he felt it.

 

It was a low blow. Literally.

 

His opponent brought one knee up and jammed it firmly into the tender space between number fifteen's legs. And Ichigo yelped as blinding, crippling pain exploded in his groin. Protective cup be damned.

 

Wide-eyed and stunned, Ichigo went down along the boards with a desperate wheeze as all of the life was forcefully crushed out of his nuts.

 

As Ichigo was going down, the crowd leaped to its collective feet, those closest to the glass standing on their toes, pressing forward and straining to see past the barrier and catch a glimpse of their fallen hero. And see him they did. Through the plexiglass that surrounded the rink. On the big screen above the ice. On the smaller screens of bars and homes. Number fifteen was choking in air as he curled up on the ice, gloves tucked between his legs, face scrunched into the picture of agony.

 

He would have whimpered but he could hardly breath. He could merely gasp and grit his teeth against the pain. Watering eyes were ground shut, while white lights danced behind his lids. The sharp whistle and hollering fans became a distant buzzing, and a familiar voice from somewhere above him seemed concerned, but it was all just background noise. Completely unimportant. The jabbering continued as Ichigo lay there, wishing he'd been born a eunuch.

 

Nearly a full minute passed, and finally Ichigo made a move to rise. But all he managed to accomplish was to roll onto his front, breathing heavily, belly down, face burrowed between gloved hands, helmet resting on the ice.

 

He was going to need the whole arena floor to ice his balls anyway, so it seemed like a good place to lie.

 

“Ichigo. Where does it hurt?” Ichigo shifted his arms as he opened one eye and glared into the face that had appeared right next to his own. Ichigo's apparent demise had brought the team's doctor out onto the ice, and he was now kneeling beside him to check his vitals.

 

And yes, Ichigo thought they were pretty damn vital.

 

“Nnngh.” All Ichigo could really do was groan. He knew he wasn't giving the doctor much to go on, but it seemed to be enough... that, and the fact that his hands were now gently hugging his pride, testing to see if it was still attached.

 

“Ah, okay. Can you stand?” Ichigo felt a hand slip beneath his arm, where it rested without tugging.

 

“Mmh.” Ichigo blew out a breath and pushed himself onto all fours, though he was still more doubled over than anything, arms bent at the elbows, weight resting on fisted gloves, helmet kissing the ice.

 

“Alright then,” the doctor nudged. “Let's just walk it off, okay?”

 

“Nnhh. Yeah.” Ichigo gathered up one knee and pushed himself up with his stick, the doctor still supporting him by his arm. The slender piece of wood vibrated in his hands as he leaned his weight onto it.

 

“You good?”

 

“Yeah,” he whispered.

 

No. No, he wasn't. Things were throbbing in a way they really shouldn't be. But he couldn't just hang around there all day feeling sorry for himself. He had to get up and keep going.

 

The crowed clapped in unison as Ichigo peeled himself from the ice with visible difficulty and skated gingerly to the bench, guided by the doctor's hand which was still on his back in case anything should happen, though in a case like this, it was more for moral support than anything. Every man in the stadium who'd been paying any kind of attention would have understood that need, and would have naturally winced in sympathy.

 

Well, almost every man.

 

Ichigo reached the bench, head still hanging down. Two players patted his back as they shifted over to let him limp into his place in the lineup. The door had been opened for him because there was no frigging way he was raising a leg to climb over the wall. He managed to raise his eyes though, and he let them scan the bench before he turned to sit down.

 

Ichigo dropped his head again and cursed quietly as he eased himself down onto the incredibly hard wooden seat.

 

That sonofabitch.

 

His lineup partner, the infamously useless number six, was sitting carefree two spaces over.

 

It came as both a blessing and a curse that one unfortunate player was stuck between them while they took their break, both still huffing for air.

 

When Ichigo got his faculties back in working order, he might have a word or two to say to number six. He was pretty damn sure that Grimmjow saw that hit coming and did nothing to intervene. He'd had every chance to stop it, but he'd totally thrown Ichigo to the wolves. Despite their differences, Ichigo had put his trust in the enforcer and now Grimmjow had purposely betrayed that trust.

 

Ichigo lifted most his weight with one arm as he adjusted himself on the bench, trying to take the pressure off and lessen the ache in his groin. He winced, though only some of the orangette's expression was from the discomfort.

 

In some ways, this was his own fault. Without realizing it, he'd become accustomed to having a personal body guard, and lately he'd found himself relying on the foul mouthed attack dog to defend him... trusting that he'd at least do his job. But fuck that. Ichigo wasn't defenceless, and he was really tired of playing damsel-in-distress in this fucked up play. It wasn't how he'd played hockey in the minors and it clearly wasn't helping him in any way. Maybe that was the whole problem. The more distance he could put between himself and the insane enforcer, the better off he'd be.

 

Ichigo's lips pursed as he came to a decision, one he should have made awhile ago. It was time to take back the ice, on Ichigo's terms. He didn't care what Grimmjow did with himself out there, as long as he stayed outta Ichigo's way.

 

Number fifteen flinched as a hand landed on his shoulder and he came back to earth. He grunted a thank you and reached for the water bottle and towel that was handed to him. Though he took a sip, he didn't really feel like water at the moment. He was rather busy trying to swallow the puking feeling that came with having one's balls broken. He gasped as he shifted, trying to find a position that didn't press so hard on his tender bits. God, was he bleeding?

 

“Y'alright Kurosaki?” The coach's booming voice breached the noise of the crowd easily as the game resumed and the fans cheered. Ichigo didn't even spare him a look back.

 

“Yeah. M'fine coach.” He'd be more fine if he'd heard a penalty being called, but what else was new tonight? There was no call except from the faithful in the stands. They had booed and jeered their displeasure with passion. It made no difference in the end, but it was nice to know that at least their fans hadn't abandoned them during their slump. Hockey fans could be a fickle bunch sometimes.

 

“Alright. Good then. You're back on in two minutes.”

 

Make it four, Ichigo thought to himself as he rested his head on his gloves and tried to clear his head of the pain. He heard a whistle blow, indicating an infraction, bringing the play to a momentary stop. But he only looked back up when he felt the intense sensation of eyes watching him. In a building filled to the rafters with fans and cameras, that would be expected, but somehow this felt different. It didn't take long to pinpoint the source of the hair-raising feeling on the back of his neck.

 

Szayel Aporro Granz was still out on the ice. The Hollow's number eight was tossing a long, smug look in Ichigo's direction while he slowed to a stop near the Reaper's bench. The pink-haired creep was taunting him. Ichigo's face set itself into a dark scowl, but his attention immediately flew to his so called back-up. The seconds of their short break were gradually ticking down, and Grimmjow was watching the pink-haired player from the bench. Ichigo recognized that look. The sexta was going to hand out some retribution for the dirty hit on Ichigo as soon as the penalty was over.

 

As if Ichigo wasn't already upset enough at the general state of things, the idea that Grimmjow would even bother to go after Szayel when he couldn't be bothered to stop the hit in the first place pissed Ichigo off even further.

 

Ichigo twisted to his right and caught Grimmjow's attention with a sharp, “Hey!”

 

“Back off, Grimmjow,” he growled. “He's mine.”

 

Almost as if he were expecting it, Grimmjow turned his hate filled scowl directly onto the orangette, locking eyes with the pale player and somehow managing to dismiss Ichigo with an arrogant nod and a bullish snort. Ichigo felt himself tense. It was like Grimmjow had flipped him the bird with his chin.

 

“You just do the job that yer supposed to be so fucking good at, pretty boy, and let me do mine,” the bluenet growled back, leaning towards Ichigo. He punctuated the command with a malicious sneer, cobalt blue sparkling with disdain.

 

Ichigo's eyes widened and his pulse quickened. If he'd been cranky a moment ago, he was positively furious now. It didn't take a genius to see that the bluenet was wolfishly pleased with himself for his sneaky, backhanded manoeuvre. Ichigo snapped like a cheap rubber band, lurching across in front of their hapless teammate, who was by now leaning back as far as he could to escape being squeezed flat between the bickering duo.

 

“Let you do yours?!” he screeched. “If you were doing _yours_ , maybe I woulda got that shot off instead of getting bagged in the first place, asshole.”

 

Grimmjow's head fell sideways, and though a cocky grin seemed like it would follow, his face remained serious as he twisted around and patted the thick material of his own thigh.

 

“You do look kinda sore there... partner. You wanna sit on my lap?” Grimmjow waited for the inevitable reaction, a beautiful scarlet blush, a face full of shocked disgust, a blow-up, but...

 

Nothing.

 

He was met, instead, with the exact same ' _giving you shit and not taking it_ ' look that had been stuck there since Ichigo's mouth had started moving. And now he imagined he could feel his own cheeks warming, not with embarrassment, but with rising irritation as Ichigo merely leaned in further and hissed like a viper.

 

“I know you did that on purpose.”

 

Grimmjow pulled back.

 

“Keh. Whatever Kurosaki.” He rolled his eyes, looking intentionally bored with the other man's whining. “The whole world's out ta get you.”

 

The bluenet turned away from the fuming player. Grimmjow had been feeling rather smug and content for the past few minutes but he was quickly growing annoyed by the bothersome red head. He was also aware that the guys next to him were listening. And Ichigo was starting to make him look bad, as usual. Now that Ichigo was in his face again, he was sorry he didn't get to be the one to knee the little fucker in the balls himself.

 

Ichigo would look real good down on his knees and whimpering in front of Grimmjow. Real good.

 

In fact, while he was down there he could...

 

“Not the whole world, Grimmjow. Just you.” Ichigo's voice was lowered, keeping his last sentiments between the two of them and their poor trapped teammate as best he could.

 

Grimmjow turned back towards the annoyance, about to tell him to get over it and shut the hell up, but instead found himself unable to speak. It was like he had turned a sharp corner and run right into a hundred foot cliff face. He was pinned by brown eyes, suddenly hard like aged rock, immovable. And they grabbed Grimmjow's complete attention, dominating him.

 

“I don't care what the coach says,” Ichigo hissed. “You can keep your fucking charity to yourself.”

 

“Hn.”

 

“I mean it, Grimmjow,” he continued in a hoarse whisper. “Stay the hell outta my way from now on. We're done.”

 

“Che.”

 

Other than a derisive snort and jaded sneer, Grimmjow didn't really have a good defence for his fire-haired teammate's earlier accusation. He _had_ let Ichigo get hit on purpose. Yeah, he could have easily intercepted the pink haired Hollow, but Ichigo had it coming. He didn't appreciate Grimmjow enough, or at all. In fact, it was probably fair to say he hated him. Either way, the kid deserved it.

 

Plus it had been fucking hilarious. Grimmjow may have looked serious on the outside, but the moment he'd seen Ichigo crumple and grab his nuts, he'd nearly become an unbalanced mess of insane cackling on the inside. Christ, he could just picture the kid with a bag of ice on his balls tonight. And he sure as hell wasn't gonna be getting laid any time soon.

 

Yup, he'd had a sweet little moment of revenge, and he'd been all prepared to play the part and at least look like he wanted to step up in Ichigo's defence. Not that he minded blowing off some steam on the pink-haired Hollow, but he would definitely not be doing it on Ichigo's behalf.

 

And not that it mattered now, because Ichigo had saved him from feeling obligated and had let him off the hook. He'd said it plain as day.

 

_We're done._

 

It was only then that Ichigo's statement began to sink in, he'd been so engrossed with the rest of it. Grimmjow covertly slid narrowed blue eyes back towards his bitter teammate as he felt his hackles begin to rise anew. Who the hell was Ichigo to say when they were done?

 

Maybe Grimmjow didn't _wanna_ be done.

 

Grimmjow rubbed an arm across his midsection. Maybe that sudden queasiness in his gut was just bubbling anger because Ichigo was throwing around orders again. The bluenet simmered on the bench for a moment, thoughts being pulled more and more away from the game as the words turned over and over in his mind.

 

_We're done._

 

He couldn't just let that go, and after a moment of contemplation, Grimmjow open his mouth to tell Ichigo how things were gonna be. But before he could challenge the other man's decree, the coach's voice snapped like a whip behind him. Reflex took over, and their lineup was once again scaling the front of the bench and charging back onto the ice.

 

 

As the game dragged on, Ichigo was getting more and more agitated. He hadn't had a single good opportunity to get his retribution on the man who had physically kneed him in the nuts. Nor had he touched the puck since. As a result, his frustrations were spilling over and he found himself barking at Grimmjow at every turn. Despite skewering him with his eyes, Grimmjow remained oddly silent, choosing to ignore Ichigo's derisive comment about his playing style and his remark about playing real hockey instead of acting like a brainless thug. That was their only interaction for the remainder of the game.

 

No longer protected, Ichigo had absorbed several hard hits and was sure to be well painted the next day. But the Hollow's weren't on top of him like he thought they'd be without his enforcer watching over him. Which was odd. Because he had sort of expected the sexta to ease off a little, show his displeasure by sulking and hanging back, maybe even cruise through the rest of the game without wreaking quite as much havoc on the opposing team. It would show the Reapers and Ichigo that Grimmjow's presence was important.

 

But that was most definitely not the course of action the enforcer had chosen. If anything, he'd stepped it up.

 

In fact, Grimmjow was acting like a Hollow minesweeper. The sexta was sounding off like an angry badger on every bad call, while aggressively pursuing the officials, the puck, and every opposing player, on the ice and off. He was practically frothing at the mouth.

 

It was a very strange feeling, and it was rather unnerving to the orangette, because it had nothing to do with Ichigo's defence. And yet, it had everything to do with Ichigo.

 

Only a few minutes were left in the game when the whistles shrilled as Grimmjow's temper finally erupted. One moment, he was battling Ulquiorra in the corner for the puck, the next, he had the Hollow's number four pinned to the ice and his white knuckled fist was was repeatedly driving into his face. Just before he'd hit the ice, Ulquiorra, bless his soul, had manage to land three sharp jabs into Grimmjow's shoulder and jaw, but the bigger man didn't even seem to notice.

 

The crowd of course, loved it. Bunch of animals.

 

Ichigo, on the other hand, had stood back and watched with a growing sense of dismay. He was pretty sure he knew exactly who Grimmjow was really seeing during the one sided fight, where he'd gotten the fuel for his fire. And even through his own fearless anger, the sight still left Ichigo feeling a bit cold and queasy, like his muscles had wrapped themselves tighter around his bones for warmth and his stomach had sunk into his feet. The attack was about rage, not revenge, and Ichigo had had no small part in its birth. He'd been egging the enforcer on as much as possible since the “incident”.

 

Ichigo had seen the way Grimmjow had attacked Ulquiorra like a savage animal. The way he'd just fucking sprung on the guy. Ulquiorra had been hacking at the sexta through most of the third like a hungry beaver on a birch tree, but still, even though Ichigo could understand the fight breaking out, once number four had gone down, and Ulquiorra had covered his face, most players would have backed off.

 

It was over before it started but Grimmjow didn't let up. It took an official and two Hollow players to pull him off of the downed player, and when they did the wild-eyed enforcer was chirping at _them_ to go too.

 

Grimmjow was just lucky that Nnoitra Jiruga and Yammy Llargo weren't on the roster that night or he'd have found himself in a hell of a mess real quick. Even Grimmjow's excessively violent temper was no match the two monstrous men, and like the sexta, they had no qualms about laying down the law in defence of their teammates, even if it _was_ just Ulquiorra.

 

The pale brunette could be a bit of a prick but the guy didn't deserve the beating he got, or the concussion. Ichigo kind of thought he shouldn't have been feeling sorry for him for hounding the bluenet as he did. Grimmjow's building aggression was plain as day for anyone with half a brain to see, and Ulquiorra had to have realized that he was messing with a stick of dynamite.

 

Even so, he was a stick of dynamite that Ichigo had lit... that should have gone off in Ichigo's hand.

 

He watched as two referees manhandled the raging bluenet out of the rink. Even as stepped off the ice, the forward was still arguing the five minute major penalty call with the officials. But they weren't going to budge. And they shouldn't. Grimmjow needed to calm the hell down before he hurt anybody else.

 

As Ichigo returned to the bench once again, he remembered his earlier promise to himself, to just be himself and play the game. If Grimmjow had a problem with him, it would be solely on Grimmjow. Well he'd kept it for the most part, hadn't he?

 

He looked up to the big screen above the ice which was replaying the explosion, revealing the violence that Ichigo had probably fuelled.

 

No. He was not going to feel responsible for Grimmjow's dirty outburst. He wasn't the one who had started shit in the hallway. He wasn't the one who had eighty-sixed his own teammate.

 

Ichigo was being the bigger man here.

 

Ichigo's shoulders slumped forward, and he rested his helmet against the long shaft of his stick.

 

Except that he wasn't.

 

It was almost impossible for Ichigo to just carry on and not purposely nettle Grimmjow. No matter how hard he tried to control himself, the man provoked a reaction from Ichigo in some way. Twice he'd come up to Ichigo and gotten in his face. And when he didn't like the reaction he got, when that wasn't enough, Grimmjow, the dirty sneak, had stabbed him in the back.

 

And that offer to sit on Grimmjow's lap? He'd instantly gone hog wild inside. His stomach had flipped, his heart had done some weird skittering shit, and he'd had to fight tooth and nail to maintain his composure. He could feel the blood rising up his neck again as he thought about it.

 

He couldn't just let that go.

 

And to think, they were going to get to do it all over again tomorrow night.

 

Delightful.

 

 

**X X X**

 

 

Kensei stood in front of a small handful of players outside of the arena, a few of them leaning against the back of Kensei's palladium silver SUV beneath the softly buzzing light post. Snowflakes glittered like diamonds as they passed through the light and drifted down in silence. Even though they'd won the game against their arch rivals, the mood was somber, the men caught up in a serious discussion.

 

“Oh, believe me. I've tried talking ta him, and I honestly can't figure out what all the friction's about. Ichigo just keeps babblin' that he can't play with Grimmjow. _Jaegerjaquez won't cooperate. Jaegerjaquez gets in the way. Jaegerjaquez is too aggressive. Jaegerjaquez._...”

 

“Okay, Shinji,” Renji interrupted. “I think we get it.”

 

Shinji glared, pulled a face, and continued on regardless.

 

“... _Jaegerjaquez can't shoot... Jaegerjaquez's a mental case..._ He just went on and on and...”

 

“I've talked to Grimmjow about his issues with Kurosaki several times as well,” Kensei cut in, face serious. “And I couldn't get anywhere with him either. He says the issue is Kurosaki, not him.” The remark set off a round of muttering sighs. “Normally I can get through to him, but he won't back down on this one. He's being a stubborn ass.”

 

“...ya know, I still have the headache,” Shinji finally finished as he rubbed his temples, even though everyone was ignoring him in favour of Kensei.

 

“I've tried to get through to the coach about splitting those two idiots apart, but he wont budge,” the white-haired man continued. “He's says Ichigo's not getting pushed around as much with Grimmjow out there, and as far as he's concerned that's half the battle won.”

 

“Well, I think that's great, Ichi not getting creamed all the time,” Shinji offered, all eyes falling on him once again. “But is that really fixing the problem?”

 

“Yeah, he still ain't scoring like he was before,” Shiro added, voice slightly muffled from having his chin tucked far down into the neck of his jacket in the minus twelve degree weather. His face had already seen enough beatings tonight.

 

“Well, the coach seems convinced the kid'll snap out of it and magically start scoring again,” Kensei replied.

 

“Sounds like wishful thinking to me,” Renji stated flatly, arms crossed and lips pulled into a tight frown.

 

“And if he doesn't?” Shinji asked. All eyes returned to the team's captain.

 

Kensei sighed and shifted his weight off of one leg to the both of them, arms folded in a solid barricade across his broad chest.

 

“This is a team effort. We can't afford to put all the weight on one man's shoulders.” Kensei shrugged and shook his head, for once at a loss for real answers. “We'll just have to pull up our straps and play better.”

 

The other men nodded. They were empty words at the heart of it, but nobody blamed Kensei for not having all the answers. They'd tried to talk to the two feuding players, and short of a full on intervention, what else could they do? It was up to the coach to sort out their team's problems after all.

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Shinji Hirako was actually beginning to look around for a bullhorn.

It felt like he needed one to grab his teammates' attention.

Ichigo couldn't seem to keep his eyes off the man he'd been playing with and battling with for weeks on end. Said man was looking bored as shit and leaning against the wall in a casual slouch amongst a group of players some thirty feet away.

It was part of the Soul Reapers' pregame routine, a small social gathering held at the crossroads where four wide hallways connected not far from the dressing room. For an hour or so, most of the players would congregate there. Someone would produce a hacky sack or soccer ball, and a game of "don't let the ball hit the ground" would follow. It was a low stress way to warm up and loosen stiff muscles.

Not everyone participated. Renji for one, had his own routine. A tennis ball and a wall to bounce if off were all he needed. It was a reflex game. A way for the goalie to get in the zone.

Here at the crossroads, the coach was noticeably absent. This time belonged to the players. And they used it as they saw fit. A few of the men, like Byakuya Kuchiki, were serious as a heart attack, while others, like Shinji Hirako, were always light and loose. Much like in the locker room, intimate details of sexual adventures would be matters of casual conversation. It all helped to bring the group together and calm the nerves. After that, every ounce of focus was on the game.

Being one of the first to arrive at the arena, Ichigo had taken his sweet time dropping off his hockey bag and setting out his skates before wandering down the hallway to join in on the ritual. The hall was already filled with players by the time he got there, their gear lined up along a wall out of the way. After finally winning a game, most of them were eager to warm up, and several balls were already in play.

After his winning goal last night, Ichigo would have thought he'd be psyched to play again as well, but he was far from it. All he felt was the pressure to perform and the sting of knowing he wasn't. And the constant murmur nagging him from the back of his mind was driving him crazy. His subconscious was trying to tell him something; an answer to his hockey woes perhaps? That would be great. But the feeling was just an infuriating taunt, like a voice muffled by a thick wall, screaming a message at him that he couldn't seem to hear.

If he spent less time trying to tune it out, and more time just focusing on his game, maybe he'd get somewhere.

Ichigo's somber gaze swept across the loose gathering of twenty some men. He sighed when a head of blond hair broke free from a small group and came bounding towards him with far too much energy.

"Yo, Ichi! My man! Ya ready for another big win?" Shinji strode towards him with a wide, long-toothed smile.

Ichigo gave a small upward nod in greeting, but he didn't return the smile the blond was giving him. His eyes were already fixed on another shade of hair, one so unnatural, yet so stunning that it seemed hell bent on pulling his attention away from everything else.

Shinji eyed his sour-faced teammate critically as he bumped Ichigo on the shoulder with his fist.

"Getcher game face on, Ichi. It'll be easy pickin's tonight!"

Ichigo flinched as if he'd been nudged out of a daydream.

"What?"

The blank look he received didn't phase the wiry blond. Shinji could see that Ichigo was on another planet the minute he appeared, and he was determined to snap the star player out of his funk and get him in the right mindset for the game. Ichigo needed to grab onto last night's goal and use it to regain his momentum. A pep talk from Shinji could be just what Ichigo needed.

"Them Ryoka pussies think they're gonna beat us just 'cause we were in a little slump. But we're back and we're gonna show'em up, right Ichi?"

"Sure we will," Ichigo muttered, attention drifting back to wherever it had wandered.

Shinji gave him a sceptical look but said nothing. Maybe pep talks weren't the way to go. Perhaps he should just regale Ichigo with tails of his latest conquest. With that, Shinji launched into a detailed description of the girl he'd spent the night with. Sex was always easiest to come by when you were a winner.

**X X X**

Grimmjow pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers and squeezed his eyes shut. Fuck, he was tired. His whole pregame routine had been shot to shit after his bout of insomnia from last night's game. And he'd slept in much later than he usually would have on game day. He was sore from last night's screw-up of a game, a bruised shoulder and sore knuckles reminding him of the hurt he'd inflicted on himself in the line of duty. He could deal with the aches. But now he was also tired as hell, and completely unfocused. The only thing he'd managed to do right was to eat his usual pregame dinner of baked chicken and pasta, and show up on fucking time.

Now he wished he hadn't.

Renji and Shiro were yapping at him about some fucking thing or other to do with an exclusive party they'd been invited to after the game... with hot tubs and free booze... and did he wanna go and...

No, he didn't wanna fucking go.

They only wanted him around for their sake anyway, because with him around, they were sure to meet almost every available woman at the party. Grimmjow thumbed one of the pockets of his dark blue track pants and let himself fall back against the wall, no longer really listening to the witless banter around him. They seemed to think pussy was magnetically attracted to him. He let out a quiet snort. Well, alright. Maybe it was. Dick too, come to think of it. He'd always kept it on the down-low, but he'd been approached by males before, more times than he could count on one hand, in fact.

Naturally, he'd turned them down in a tone that brooked no argument. He wasn't cruel about it, though. Just clear. Despite his reputation for being cold and unforgiving, Grimmjow couldn't bring himself to begrudge someone just because they were physically attracted to him. You couldn't help who you liked. Hell, it was a compliment after all, wasn't it?

And none of the guys who had tried to pick him up had been aggressive or demanding, or even overtly homosexual. In fact, Grimmjow had found the attention kind of refreshing. They hadn't stared at him like he was on some other level. They hadn't played shy, or tipped their heads and giggled, or even turned around and given him attitude when he said he already had plans for the night. Christ, even when he was honest about it, the women still gave him a hard time. Women were so often unpredictable, but the guys had seemed pretty together. He didn't have any gay friends, that he knew of, but he'd actually been a bit surprised when he realized that he'd been engaged in normal guy conversation with guys that would have been just as happy to have him bent over top of them, buck ass naked, and shooting his load inside them. And once the horny cats were out of the bag, and Grimmjow had let his own sexual preferences be known, he'd actually been cool enough with the situation to continue to hang with a couple of the guys for the night instead of bailing.

The whole concept made him curious. Why would a guy wanna be with another guy? It was something the guys on the team joked about all the time. Hell, most of the pranks they played on each other had major homoerotic overtones. But still, being gay wasn't a subject they ever discussed. This was hockey. If any of the players were gay, they kept it a tight secret. He guessed that most of the guys on this team would probably be okay with something like that, even with all the in-your-face nudity that came with the territory. Hell, Grimmjow didn't give two shits. They could even stare if they wanted. The average hockey fan, though, might distance themselves. With their careers and the thing they loved most at stake, most guys wouldn't want to risk the exposure.

Yes, the concept had gotten Grimmjow thinking, especially when the two guys he'd hung out with on one particular occasion quietly left together. They'd invited him to join them before they left. He'd brushed them off, but he'd surprised himself when he'd opened his mouth and wished them a  _good fuckin' time_. He'd been joking to hide his discomfort, of course. It was just too much information. But once home, in the quiet safety of his apartment, he had allowed himself to wonder just what it would be like to be with another man.

What the hell would he do without breasts to grab? He'd miss 'em, naturally. But when he really thought about it, tits were more of an accessory than a necessity He didn't need them to get off. The attention his dick got was what mattered. And who knew better what a dick liked than another guy?

The bluenet frowned. There was that. He supposed he'd be fine without pussy. Frankly, he had an undeniable fondness for ass anyway.

Grimmjow gave himself a stern mental shake as his two teammates continued to rattle on about breasts and hips and holes. Christ, here he was being invited to a party where he was sure to get laid and he was thinkin' about dick.

He was so tired, he was delirious.

Grimmjow tilted his head forward, and rattled blue eyes dropped out of sight. He glowered with fervour at the tips of his sneakers as he continued to hold up the wall with his back. Maybe there were answers hidden in the patterns of his shoes. It all seemed suddenly too fuckin' complicated. Screw dick and screw pussy.

What Grimmjow wanted was to put his shifts in, go back home, shut his phone off, and crawl into bed. Alone.

Last night wasn't the first night he'd spent alone in recent weeks. While it was a virtual guarantee that he would always wake up with morning wood, and his libido would rouse with his temper, he hadn't actually been into getting laid as much lately. Very few of the girls he'd met had caught his eye. Those that had, he'd taken up on their offer, but he'd actually stooped so low as to feign ill a couple of times before things could get too heated. He was disgusted with himself in a way. He wasn't one for lying. And he certainly wasn't one for turning down sex.

Beating off was once a last desperate measure that Grimmjow only indulged in on occasion if the women weren't doing it for him. But it had become something of a routine these past few weeks. Even then, it didn't always work. After last night's failure to launch, he was wound tight and ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

And wouldn't ya know, there he was.

Grimmjow didn't need to turn around to know who it was that now stood in the same long hallway as him, thankfully on the other side of the crossroads. He was certain he could smell the scent of his shampoo from here. But it was Ichigo's grumbling tenor that sliced through the voices of several small groups of men which sent a shiver of anger through Grimmjow's stomach.

What did that little shit have a right to be in such a pissy mood about anyway? He was everybody's little hero again, wasn't he?

"Hello, Grim."

Grimmjow's head whipped around at the familiar husky voice, thoughts of Ichigo washing away like so much filth. He was suddenly feeling a little more awake and slightly less grumpy than he was seconds ago. The buttery smooth, seductive voice awakened tactile memories of hard bodies rocking together in the late night hours with fluid motions, hot, damp skin slapping against his own, slick tight heat squeezing his dick into submission. Memories swirled down into the core of his abdomen as the vivid sensations resurfaced. The instant arousal was almost welcome as his insides prickled with warmth and parts of his outsides began to perk up. Now he had a place to pour the restless need that had been simmering in his gut since last night.

He supposed bed could wait if he could crawl into  _that_  instead. He watched the woman approach, and his throat vibrated with a low hum of approval.

Pussy was back on the menu.

She was the niece of one of the higher ups. Normally, that relationship might have put off a hockey player, but no one interfered with her business. Yoruichi Shihouin was lustful and independent, and she embodied both of the words with ease as she strolled towards the bluenet, her tight black pants and low cut fitted top leaving little to any man's imagination. And even less to their self control.

The woman was all kinds of hot, with gravity defying breasts and a petite, tight, firm ass. One that Grimmjow was very familiar with. And best of all, after several very strenuous nights with the nubile young woman, Grimmjow knew she was quite happy to oblige him and satisfy his particular sexual fetishes.

She was just what he needed tonight. Something to look forward to.

Yoruichi was dark, silky soft, confident and predatory, but a wanton whore beneath the sheets when she was with him. He felt a hungry grin slide into place as the young woman approached him.

"Heya sexy," he greeted, darkened blue eyes raking up and down her lean, fit body.

Though she approached him with all the confidence of a huntress, he caught a flicker of hesitation in her eyes as she neared. Perhaps she was remembering their last encounter as well. She was aggressive and demanding, a tigress in bed, but...

The corner of his mouth twitched upwards.

...she was not the predator he was.

Grimmjow was a little surprised that she was talking to him to be honest. Their last session together had ended on a sour note. It was last season, just after Christmas. He'd taken her up to his apartment and he'd taken to fucking her on every available surface. The sex had been good; sweaty, aggressive, explosive. Afterwards though, she'd suggested that he'd been much too rough and that perhaps he should find some other outlet for his personal problems. He knew exactly what she'd been talking about, and he'd snapped at her. He never apologized for it either, a fact that had turned their parting into a short but bitter argument.

What had pissed him off the most at the time, wasn't her prying. It wasn't even that she gave a shit about something he didn't need any help with, or that she wanted him to talk about it. It was that she started fucking pushing him to face issues that were far to raw and that he had no interest in discussing. That, and she had confused the boundaries of their relationship. She was a hot as hell fuck, not his girlfriend, or his best friend. They went out for dinner, then they fucked. That was the understanding. They didn't talk about his  _personal problems._

But that was eleven months ago. Apparently, she had gotten over it. Which was good. She looked as amazing as ever. Maybe they could take up where they left off.

"You miss me?" he rumbled, leaning forward just enough that she had to rise onto her toes to kiss him lightly on the cheek.

"Of course, Grim," she breathed as she pulled back, olive eyes lit with her usual coy smile. Grimmjow raised an eyebrow.

"Ain't seen you around here for awhile. Where you been hidin'?" he asked, smirk fixed as firmly in place as her own.

"Oh, I'm always around, Grim."

"And you can't say hi?"

"I  _am_  saying, hi," she admonished, waiting as Grimmjow's gaze suddenly snapped down the hall. Concern crossed her pretty features. He must have heard something  _interesting,_  because his azure eyes were narrowed and bright with an anger she remembered well.

"I just wanted to wish you good luck in your game tonight," she continued, pressing her palm against the centre of his chest to regain his attention before pulling it away to hang loose at her side.

"That all?" Grimmjow's head tilted to the side as he came back to her. He wasn't convinced yet. She was here, so she had to want something.

"Were you expecting more?" She was still smiling but her eyes were less playful now.

Grimmjow's mouth twitched. She knew what he wanted. And she knew he didn't like games. But one minute with her and he was already playing them, trying to keep his cool while she toyed with him.

"Thought maybe you'd wanna catch up... after..." he replied, voice carrying a little more snap to it than he'd meant it to. His sour mood was returning.

He didn't pay for it, and he didn't beg for it.

He wasn't a fucking neanderthal.

"Perhaps another time, Grim." Yoruichi reached up and squeezed his bicep, her small hand barely covering the peak of the tense bulge. "I already have plans tonight."

Grimmjow's smile was long gone. He knew what that meant. If she was down here, hanging around the team, she had plans to hook up with one of the boys. He didn't care how many people she slept with. He wasn't a hypocrite. But being replaced by one of his teammates felt too close to sharing for his liking. Besides, from what he'd seen and heard in the locker room and on the road, not one of them could replace Grimmjow. He watched her long ponytail, full of purple hair, swing and sway as Yoruichi strode through the players at the centre of the crossroads, disrupting their game of ball to greet the men. None of them seemed to mind.

"Hn."

**X X X**

"Damn damn damn. Would you... I mean... God, I wanna get with her."

"Shut up and just go talk to her then."

"Just go talk?... Just...? You know who that  _is_ , Ichi?" It was a rhetorical statement on Shinji's part. As far as he knew, Ichigo hadn't met the bronze- skinned goddess.

Ichigo's gaze swung down the hall, and his eyes narrowed as he studied the feline woman who was eyeing Grimmjow up like he was her next meal. Not that Grimmjow seemed to mind one bit.

Ichigo shuddered as auditory memories of his hotel stays from their away games decided to playback the highlights of a certain person's sexual conquests in full surround sound.

The bluenet wasn't known for shying away from the attentions of the opposite sex. Neither were the other players of course, but that didn't concern Ichigo. What did concern him were the times he'd had to stay in the room next to Grimmjow while they were on the road and listen to the incessant thumping and high pitch cries and low grunts that seemed to go on far longer and far louder than sex should. At least Ichigo didn't actually have to room with Grimmjow. That would have been a nightmare. Shiro didn't seem to mind, though... the perve. And Renji and Shinji usually just left to find their own girlfriends for the night. But even when some delusional woman was howling Grimmjow's name at half past midnight, Ichigo staunchly refused to be chased out of his room.

And that one time, when Ichigo had held an ear to the wall, it had been purely out of concern for the life of the young lady who sounded like she was being tortured.

One absent-minded hand rubbed across his abs as Ichigo stared at the scene that was playing out in front of him. Two people hooking up for a night of loud, obnoxious sex. The thought of Grimmjow enjoying himself, carefree and satisfied... It was disgusting. And it made his stomach hurt. To Ichigo, Grimmjow was a cold, angry bastard. But to other people, women people specifically, the man was charm itself.

"Must be one of the girls he's been rubbing up against," Ichigo snorted.

"Ichi." Shinji gasped, a grin nearly splitting his face in two and eyebrows lifting with amusement as he leaned right into Ichigo's face. " _You_  sound like a jealous groupie."

"What?" Ichigo's apricot brows shot up before swan diving back down into an angry V as he turned on his team mate.

"Who are you calling a groupie, stupid?"

Shinji continued to beam, even as Ichigo shoved his blond teammate in the arm. Ichigo wanted to know where the hell Shinji would come up with an idea like that. But to ask was to invite an answer, and it would stir up a subject that brought him anxiety. So he settled for crossing his arms in defence.

"If I  _was_  some groupie, I certainly wouldn't wanna be with a neanderthal like that anyway," he blurted.

The conversation that had been taking place down the corridor hit a sudden lull, and Ichigo looked up in time to see malevolent blue eyes set on him like he was centred inside a sniper's scope. He winced.

He'd actually  _heard_  that?

God, that was irritating. Grimmjow almost never missed anything, even when people were whispering across a room. Ichigo swore his hearing was so sharp, he could hear a mouse fart in a thunderstorm.

And wasn't this just god damn perfect? He'd been in the building for all of ten minutes and already the buffoon was looking for a reason to start something. Grimmjow was giving him a very meaningful look, one that made it clear that Ichigo's remark was not going to slide. Ichigo broke away from the irritated glare and sent Shinji an annoyed look of his own.

"I'm gonna go warm up somewhere else," he muttered.

"No way, Ichi, I need ya to attract some chicks," Shinji stated, nodding towards the group of girls huddled at the end of the hall. They had shown up long before their scheduled shifts in the concession stands, and had snuck down to the crossroads in hopes of catching the attention of their favourite players. The orangette barely spared them a glance. Sharp eyes were watching Ichigo closely for a reaction now. This was interesting.

"Attract them yourself," he grumbled, "You're not using me to get girls."

"Aw, common Chigo. Don't be like that." The blond huffed, the remorseful shake of his head finally drawing a fragment of his friend's attention. "It's got to be a crime or something."

"What does?" Ichigo asked, puzzled. "And don't call me Chigo."

"You've got...  _IT_. And you let it go to waste." The wide eyed expression of horror on Shinji's face was equally matched by Ichigo's as it darkened with irritated confusion.

"Huh?"

"Women seem to think you're a catch. A hottie. Something they'd like to take home and unwrap. Catch my drift? You could totally get your game on, and yet..." Shinji shrugged in defeat. "...you do nothing about it."

"What are you talking about?" Ichigo asked, still more than a little distracted by the presence down the hall.

Shinji folded his arms.

"Chicks throw themselves at you, and you go just ignorin' 'em all the time."

"They do not. Don't say stuff that's not true," Ichigo argued, attention finally centred on Shinji, nostrils flaring in tandem with his eyes. "And I don't ignore them."

"What about when we took you to that new bar a few weeks ago?" the blond man countered, eyes flashing with triumph at Ichigo's pitiful defence.

"You have attention deficit, Shinji. I talk to women all the time." Without looking, Ichigo turned and caught the stray ball that had rolled their way with the ball of his foot, and hooked it up onto his knee with his toes.

"Yes, you do," Shinji deadpanned, less impressed with Ichigo's reflexes that he was with his avoidance techniques. "You say, hi. And then you sign their jerseys instead of signing their breasts. Not very exciting, Ichigo."

"I have two sisters, Shinji." The ball continued to jump from one knee to the other. "I respect women."

"I have a sister too, Chigo," Shinji shot back. "And I don't respect her either."

Brown eyes creased but stayed focused on the ball.

"That's disgusting."

Shinji's tongue lolled from his mouth as he gagged aloud.

"Sick Ichigo! Not what I meant, 'n you know it."

"Uhuh."

"So, do you remember the girls at the bar or not?"

The ball took a sloppy bounce off the corner of Ichigo's knee and rolled back down the corridor." Shinji grinned when he heard Ichigo sigh.

"Which bar?"

"The new one," the blond prodded. It felt like Ichigo was being evasive, and Shinji wanted to know why.

"Which new one?"

"Division."

"Shinji," the orangette began, eyes following the ball back in play down the hall, exasperation hidden beneath his bored tone. "You've dragged me to more bars in the past few weeks than I've been in since I was of age."

"You. Me. Renji." the blond droned back. "At Division. Three weeks ago. The bar with the insanely hot girls who came and sat with us, bought us a round and gave us their phone numbers... right before you bailed."

When there was no intelligent response, Shinji pulled a stupid face at his scowling counterpart.

"Earth to Ichigoooo. Those chicks that came and talked to us for twenty minutes? They were all about you! Shit, if you'd snapped yer fingers they would've dropped to their knees right there!" There. If Ichigo didn't remember now, Shinji would give up hockey forever.

Ichigo stared back, expression still irritated but mind obviously blank. Okay, forget his earlier promise. Shinji prompted further, convinced his stubborn, orange-haired friend was just feigning brain death.

"The brunette and the dirty blond?" he hinted as he waggled his eyes. "And I do mean dirty." The description produced no reaction from his teammate, but Shinji was determined to get one. Some sign of life. The hint of a libido.

"Ichigo!" he admonished. He held his hand out low in front of him, then raised it "One short and cute as shit. The other one tall, dirty – uh," he snapped his fingers. "No... strawberry blond, flirty and hotter than hell!"

Shinji leaned back, bent at the knees, and clutched at the empty air with upraised palms.

"Come aaawwwn!"

Ichigo eyebrow's pinched together as he scratched the back of his head with one hand and scowled at a spot on the wall somewhere beyond his over-dramatic teammate.

"You didn't even notice, did you?" Shinji finally asked, exasperation quickly giving way to the stirrings of genuine intrigue. Forget the game. This was much bigger.

The scratching stopped, and Ichigo slid his hand down to rub at the back of his neck instead. It served as another brief distraction as he fought to remember what girls Shinji was talking about. It was only a few weeks ago. He remembered the  _day_  because he'd been accosted by Grimmjow. He remembered being backed up against the wall, and held there between another wall of tense muscle and pissed off testosterone. He could even remember the faint smell of worn leather, the almost overpowering scent of shower gel, and what must have been some foreign antiperspirant. He swore he could smell it now, in fact.

But he couldn't remember the girls.

Ichigo's scowl deepened, and his nose wrinkled from his growing impatience. Finally, he replied.

"Unlike you, Shinji, I have actual  _things_  on my mind."

Shinji tsked in admonishment. But he wasn't offended in the slightest. He was too curious. He cocked his head thoughtfully, resting an elbow in his hand, and tapped his lips with a forefinger.

"And, come to think of it... the last two times we went out, you had your choice of babes and you blew them off."

Ichigo's hand dropped into a ball at his side and he stiffened, honey-brown eyes narrowing with a wave of irritation as they landed on Shinji.

"So?" the rattled forward challenged. "Am I supposed to jump at every woman that talks to me?"

Ichigo's temper was quickly winding itself up. Shinji regarded the orange-haired man for a moment. There was a distinct trace of red fanning out beneath his eyes, and he was definitely ruffling his feathers at Shinji now. He wondered how far he could push the line before Ichigo would shut him down... or punch him out.

"Well, you could give 'em a chance when they ask you out. When's the last time you got  _laid_?"

Shinji jerked and took a cautious step back when the hotheaded forward suddenly bristled like a wildcat being backed into a tight corner.

"You need to mind your own business," Ichigo warned, voice low and sharp.

"Okay! Okay." Shinji conceded, hands rising and patting the air in a gesture of peace. He was a little caught off guard by the force of the orangette's defensiveness. Ichigo was dead serious all of a sudden. Shinji supposed that might be enough to stop some people. But the young forward really should know better by now. If Ichigo thought a little scare tactic like that would dissuade Shinji, he obviously hadn't paid attention when Shinji was trying to pick up women. Ichigo was shit out of luck.

"Calm down, Chi- ...uhhh... Ichi. I was just kidding, yeah?" He plastered his second-most sincere smile across his face, tucked his hands into his pockets and shrugged a shoulder. He waited a beat for some of the tension in Ichigo's face to drain before he offered his unfeigned support in a syrupy voice.

" _Who_  you wanna sleep with is  _your_  business."

"Yeah, it is..." Ichigo began. He was fed up with this pointless conversation and already turning to make his way back towards the dressing room before he stopped in his tracks. His eyebrows drew together with dawning realization.

_Wait. What was with that tone? Did Shinji think... ?_

Ichigo didn't have time to complete his thoughts, let alone turn around and rail Shinji about it. A loud voice was calling out his name. And there was no ignoring it.

"Kurosaki!" The shrill call brought Ichigo's head back around, but this time it wasn't the bluenet he was faced with. An voluptuous set of breasts bounced and jiggled their way towards him, coming to a sloshy stop so close to his chest that he was certain they and their owner were going to crash into him in some sort of cataclysmic, world ending disaster.

When that didn't happen, Ichigo raised his eyes, untangling them from the hypnotic, fluid motion and shimmering bronze skin. He tried to pull a comfortable smile through a slight blush as he hauled his focus up and onto the young lady's petite face.

"Uh. He- hello." He stumbled over his greeting.

This was the girl he'd seen fawning over his nemesis. Ichigo had to admit, if there was such a thing as a perfectly constructed woman, this one would arguably be in the running.

Why was she talking to that jerk? Grimmjow had no business with a girl like this.

"Hey," she pouted up at him, her olive eyes darkened with something that seemed far too predatory for such an attractive girl.

Or maybe he did.

Ichigo recognized that look instantly. He'd seen it a lot since he'd signed with the Reapers, from the ones who were hungry for a piece of rich hockey player, some for their money, some for the thrill of riding one. He wasn't exactly sure what this one was after, but this was definitely one woman to avoid. That was always the tricky part. Ichigo felt terribly unequipped to deal with pushy women. He had a hard time being blunt with them when he knew he really should be. No matter how aggressive they became, he didn't feel right about being rude.

"So, you're Ichigo, huh?" She twisted her body, coiling up to Ichigo, bringing one shoulder closer and walking her fingers up his chest. He watched her painted fingernails dig into his shirt with each climbing step, but he was too stunned to move. The girl leaned in, breasts pressing into his abdomen and bulging out of her v-cut top.

"I just love how talented you are with that big stick of yours," she hummed.

Ichigo blinked. His whaaa? He stiffened and swallowed, shifting away from the advancing breasts one small step. Was she for real?

"You know what would be a great idea?" She didn't wait for Ichigo to answer. "Meeting me after you're game tonight." She gave him an open mouthed smile, tongue flicking out across her full, glossy lips.

"I'll help you relax with a nice massage...  _work_  that post game  _stiffness_  out of those aching muscles."

Ichigo gaped, heart rate picking up, blood rushing away from his head, more from shock than anything, though. If she was trying to talk him into orgasm, it wasn't quite working. Grimmjow had slept with her. That thought alone was enough to leave him oddly limp and aroused at the same time.

"And maybe you could show me some of your techniques, like the way you slip that  _hard_  puck between the goalies legs, hmmm?"

Ichigo tried to swallow around a dry throat, but failed. Dear god. That was enough of that.

"Th- uhhh... I... " Ichigo's throat bobbed as he finally swallowed, eyes darting to the side, away from the very frightening woman, seeking sanctuary from his always lustful teammate.

"Uh- Sh- Shin- ?"

The woman waited, a bit confused by Ichigo's stuttering and rapid eye movements, but still smiling like a hungry shark. When Ichigo finally regained the use of his voice and motor skills, he swivelled his head around to where he knew his blond team mate was still standing... but not helping, thank you very much.

Shinji wanted to pick up women? Well he could  _have_  this one.

"Shinji?" he squeaked, trying to keep the hiss of anger out of his voice.

Shinji sent her his friendliest grin as he dipped his head and tipped an imaginary cap her way.

"Ma'm."

Yoruichi's assessing gaze scoured Shinji's body, and though she smiled, it was obvious to Shinji that it was nothing more than a polite gesture. She only had eyes for his pal right now.

Regardless, Shinji declined for the both of them, and he made as much of a show of it as he could. He could see Grimmjow's expression from here and he knew the sexta was watching this little performance. He didn't know what was or wasn't going on between the two of them right now, but as far as he was concerned, this was Grimmjow's woman. And even though it was the norm in their hockey world to date the same women, even to engage in threesomes and nights of excessive debauchery, he knew that Grimmjow was not inclined to share.

Hitting on this woman would be bad. It would be akin to poking a hungry, bad tempered dog with a very short piece of bacon. And other than to smile brightly and wave his hands in the air and claim loudly that they were both already taken, there was nothing Shinji could do.

Ichigo was going to have to talk his own way out of this one. And hopefully, Grimmjow would just let it go.

Shinji sighed internally. Because  _that_ would happen.

Yoruichi's overconfident smile drew back to something slightly less carnivorous, but she remained poised. This was a woman who wasn't used to being rejected. That she had the social graces not to go off on Ichigo like a bomb for refusing her was half the battle won. Instead, she reached out and coaxed Ichigo down to place an air kiss by his cheek. When she pulled back, Shinji dropped a heavy hand onto Ichigo's shoulder. He wasn't sure if his friend was alright. He looked semi-catatonic.

Yoruichi gave a slow wink, then turned and slinked back in Grimmjow's general direction, brushing past a few of the men, who paused their game of hacky sack and smiled in appreciation.

The bluenet was still leaning against the wall, at the edge of a small group of Reapers, but they'd all fallen silent. Shinji grit his teeth in concern, then leaned into Ichigo. He could feel the stiffness in his friend's shoulder, and he could almost feel the heat from the fallout that was sure to come.

"Oh, Ichigo," Shinji whispered. "You really stepped in it this time, didn't you?"

"Keh. I didn't step in anything," he replied, head swivelling to glare down at Shinji before returning to watch Yoruichi's slow retreat.

And beyond her, Grimmjow's arms were folded into a tight knot against his chest. And even from here, Ichigo could see them rise and fall with his harsh breathing.

**X X X**

Oh, Grimmjow was breathing hard alright. He'd watched the whole scene. And he was pissed. This was more than a mere sore spot on his pride.

Ichigo didn't need Grimmjow`s  _help_? But he was fine with taking Grimmjow's  _girl_?

Ichigo had just pressed the heel of his blade into the rawness of Grimmjow's exposed nerve. And he was twisting that knife edge like a corkscrew. The sexta needed a dictionary just to  _pronounce_  the words he needed to explain just how much that pissed him off.

His anger only grew as he realized just how far out to the curb he'd been kicked, that the strange look in her eye earlier hadn't been nervous excitement at all. She just had other people she wanted to fuck. Grimmjow didn't have any particular claims on her. Not really. She wasn't his. Grimmjow knew that in his head, but right now, for some reason, he felt rejection piled on top of rejection. And to be passed over and replaced by...  _that_?

She could sleep with whoever she wanted. But of all the people, why did it have to be…  _him?_

Yoruichi manoeuvred her way back through the gauntlet of players, this time not interfering with their practice. She wasn't interested in a night with anyone else. When she was close enough so that Grimmjow wouldn't have to raise his voice to be heard, he snorted.

He knew the moment he opened his mouth, he would regret the consequences, but...

"Find what you were lookin' for, sweetheart?"

Yoruichi made to pass him by. The overconfident smile remained, but it sat only skin deep. She seemed miffed about something, but Grimmjow was too incensed to try and figure it out. Perhaps because she had a night of second rate sex ahead of her?

"Jealousy doesn't become you, Grimmjow." She slowed as she replied. Grimmjow's lip curled and he barked, rather than stated his reply.

"If you're into slumming it, then don't come crawling back to me."

Yoruichi stopped in her tracks beside him, chin rising, the walls of her cool exterior finally splintering with cracks.

"Teh! I can't see that happening, Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez." With that, Yoruichi strode off, long purple hair swinging off to the side as she turned her head back towards Grimmjow, and with a tight smile, threw a parting shot at the silent bluenet.

"What's a girl supposed to do with three inches, anyway?"

Grimmjow watched her until she disappeared out of sight. He couldn't take his eyes off her. If he did, he'd have to face the looks of his teammates. She'd just fucking humiliated him. And  _he_  had happily played a huge part in that. The sexta growled as his eyes sought out the true source of his pain.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

The expression on his face was worrying.

 

Grimmjow was back to looking at him like he was Lucifer.

 

The muscle of Ichigo's jaw twitched. The itch to take up the challenge was simmering beneath his skin. But nothing was going to be resolved here. Even Ichigo knew that by now. He turned and strode at a brisk pace - he was _not_ running - down the corridor, dismissing the blue-haired man, and leaving him to stand there with an ineffective glare. Ichigo hadn't done anything to deserve it anyway, and he wasn't going to encourage it.

 

Once he rounded the corner, he did break into a run. He hoped a couple of light laps around the building would loosen him up, his mind as well as his muscles. He needed to rid himself of this energy. It wasn't the good kind. It was restless, dark, more like a dead weight dragging him down than anything.

 

It seemed that everything Ichigo did, said, and thought was completely wrong. It didn't matter if he said something or stayed silent. It didn't even make a difference when he tried to stay out of the way. Somehow, his very presence was enough to spark a dispute. Grimmjow really had it in for him.

 

Ichigo's pace increased, and by the time he reached the locker room he practically stormed into it. He was furious. Somewhere beneath the miasma of anger, he felt a pang of insult and hurt. And he was irritated that he barely understood why. Of course he was offended by the accusation that he would hit on another man's woman. But why did he care so damn much what Grimmjow thought of him?

 

They hated each other, so what did it shitting matter? She sure was beautiful though, and just as bat shit crazy as Grimmjow. Maybe they were good for each other.

 

She'd stopped and talked to Grimmjow again. Ichigo guessed he knew what Grimmjow was doing tonight. He sniffed, looking at his watch. Two hours to game time. And Ichigo hadn't hooked up in almost as many months. Maybe he should have taken her up, stepped into Grimmjow's world for a night. Ichigo rubbed a hand absently across his navel as a warm flutter let him know that part of him found the idea more appealing than he cared to admit out loud.

 

Ichigo blinked as he came back to the here and now. He'd been sitting on the bench in a daze for nearly ten minutes, fingers toying with the black zipper of the hockey bag at his feet. He tasked himself as he pulled the zipper open. With a huff, Ichigo stood up and began undressing, eyes focused on the imperfections on his bit of bench in the corner. He paused as he took in the knotted markings, enveloped within the polished grain. Not perfect. But strong and beautiful. His eyes traced a looping crack in the wood. It met up with one of the knots, turning it into a six. He'd never noticed that before. He glared at it. This was his piece of bench, and he couldn't even keep that much for himself.

 

He ignored the sounds and rustles behind him, a few players beginning to trickle through the door. He just wanted to get suited up and refocused, leave whateverthehellthatwas back in the hall where it belonged.

 

He started to yank off his shirt, baring his long lean torso to the cool air of the room. A smooth, tight, six pack flexed and stretched as he raised his arms and drew the shirt up. Instead of just flipping it inside out, Ichigo began to pull his arms free from the long stretchysleeves one at a time. One was about as far as he got.

 

He sensed, rather than saw the figure come up on him from behind.

 

“You're good at scurryin' around like a rat, ain'tcha?”

 

Ichigo wasn't prepared at all for the deep, angry rumble that seemed to blast against the back of his neck like a blistering desert sandstorm. And he wasn't ready for the powerful grip that caught his shoulder and jerked him part way around to face his aggressor.

 

As soon as his mind registered his predicament, Ichigo reacted, rounding on the bluenet, arms drawing up against his core to defend himself. Grimmjow was standing there, arms spread wide in exasperated anger.

 

“What the fuck, asshole? First you shot block me. Now you cock block me?”

 

Ichigo's eye twitched. Grimmjow was all up in his face again, not an ounce of concern that Ichigo might just pop him one. He loomed over Ichigo, his stance making him appear even larger than he already was.

 

Ichigo's rust coated torpedoes were already locked and loaded. He was long since done giving Grimmjow any leeway.

 

“Hell's your problem, Grimmjow?” he shot back. “You get up on the wrong side of somebody else's bed again?” Ichigo's stomach tightened. Shit. That didn't sound like jealousy at all. Maybe Shinji had a point.

 

A short intake of air was the only warning Ichigo got before Grimmjow's fist shot out.

 

He latched onto Ichigo's rumpled up shirt collar, twisting the material and tugging hard, pulling him in close. There was no snarl. No fanged teeth. No attempt to make a flashy show of how angry he was. The only tell of the fire than burned beneath was that his full lips had gathered and tightened into a creased ball, every last drop of living colour squeezed out by tension.

 

Ichigo grimaced as he was hauled forward. He expected to be hit on the spot. But he was quite surprised when he didn't feel the impact of Grimmjow's knuckles against his jaw. Something was holding the bluenet's fist back.

 

But Ichigo didn't have mental resources to contemplate the larger man's motives at the moment. Grimmjow had tightened his hold, and Ichigo instantly recoiled as the heated skin of Grimmjow's hand pressed against his collar bone, sharp knuckles digging into the muscles beneath his skin.

 

Time slowed. Then stopped.

 

Grimmjow pulled harder and stepped closer. Ichigo sucked in a breath as he first stumbled forward then came up hard against the wall, bare back meeting cold cement and knocking the same breath from his lungs. The young forward's teeth ground together inside his mouth as he fought his temper, determined not to swing first. But being jerked around like a stuffed dog toy was not cool. He was getting mad now. Ichigo longed to bring his knee up to greet Grimmjow's solar plexus, double him over, then wrap his hand around his neck and pin _him_ to the wall instead. But at the same time, every single cell in his body wanted to scamper very very far away from the man who was once again dangerously close.

 

Bleached blue eyes crackled with energy, barely contained. Ichigo's eyes darted between the soul shattering blue and the bloated black centres, trying to see the core of the blue solar storm, but even this close, the man behind them remained as elusive and impossible as lightening in a bottle. Lips flushed deep crimson as heat and life rushed back. All of these things, Ichigo noticed. The locker room had drawn quiet, gathered in on itself, as if waiting for an explosion, cringing in anticipation but unsure of what was coming.

 

Ichigo refused to break his stare as Grimmjow's eye's narrowed. He had Ichigo wrapped around his fist while they both waited for the next move.

 

So, why did Grimmjow feel like it was _his_ back against the wall?

 

His eyes. They were deep red brown like wet hazel nut shells. The bluenet glared right into those god damn eyes as Ichigo mirrored him. Grimmjow longed to crack them and see what was inside. What did Ichigo see when he looked through them?

 

What the fuck was he thinking? Now that he had him pinned, he didn't know quite what to do with himself. Somewhere, and he didn't know where, the tables had turned, again. Grimmjow was still angry, but now he was suddenly feeling stuck and... fascinated? It was an odd situation. He yearned to shake the orangette until his teeth broke loose, but at the same time Grimmjow was oddly content to just hold him there, watch the subtle changes in his expression, study his sharp scowl, search his dark angry eyes.

 

He could happily stand there and listen to his quickened breaths, feel the vibrations of his pulse against his fist, taste the heat and anger as it radiated off of the orangette and washed over Grimmjow's lips. He really could just stand there like that. And yet, still, he wanted to throttle him good. Ichigo needed to get it, though whatever it was was remained oddly elusive to the bluenet. A confused frown brushed across his face. But it only remained for a moment. As soon as Grimmjow realized what he was doing, he glared harder at the younger man.

 

He was admittedly growing more flustered and confused about why he was even angry at Kurosaki. Grimmjow wasn't so gone that he couldn't see logic. Yoruichi wasn't even his girlfriend. She was just a good lay. But with those fearless chestnut brown eyes so close to his own, staring right back at him with such rooted defiance, there was nothing on earth that could make him back down. He ground his prey against the wall, already bruised knuckles burning where they made contact with his skin, imprinting into flesh, and bending bone.

 

Ichigo jolted.

 

“Don't touch me,” he snapped.

 

Ichigo grabbed the knuckles which were binding him and wrenched Grimmjow's hand from his collar before batting it away, stunning the bluenet with his raw strength and speed. Grimmjow's eyes flashed with surprise and a surge of anxiety that shot straight to his dick. It was a slip he couldn't afford, and he managed to recovered his composure almost instantly.

 

“Keep yer hands off a' my fuckin' stuff,” he growled, gravelly voice lowered in warning.

 

Ichigo ignored the sick little thrill that sound produced, and instead of blushing, his eyes widened then narrowed in affront as a small sound escaped his throat.

 

His... _stuff_? What the hell was his problem? It didn't seem like that woman _belonged_ to _anybody_.

 

And _as if_ he would want any of Grimmjow's sloppy seconds!

 

Ichigo drew himself up to his full height, even rising to the balls of his feet in an effort to lock eyes with the taller bluenet. He was going to rip Grimmjow a new one, then tell Grimmjow where he could stick his stuff. But despite how annoyed he was by what Grimmjow had just said to him, Ichigo still hesitated. Grimmjow's fleeting expression was setting off alarms in Ichigo's mind, but for what he didn't know. How could he hold on to his anger when Grimmjow was giving him desperate looks like that? The idiot was trying to cover it with a scowl, but he still had this lost puppy face that was causing Ichigo's brain cells to scatter. His heart was thrumming a steady beat in his chest, and at the tone of his voice, a shiver of something, not quite fear, had skittered like a feather down past the skin of Ichigo's stomach and settled in his navel. Ichigo nearly flushed in alarm. He didn't know what that feeling was, but he would just add it to the growing list of things he didn't like about the bluenet and deal with it later. Maybe.

 

“You hearin' me, you sneaky little shit?” Grimmjow's hot breath was like fire rolling off the sun, slamming into his face and setting fire to his skin, his good will incinerating into ashes.

 

Screw that. And screw Grimmjow's _little boy lost_ expression. Ichigo had no problem staying mad at him. Right now, Grimmjow's demanding attitude rated a helluvalot higher on Ichigo's list of priorities than whatever was going on in his tiny head. Ichigo would not be accused by this man or anyone else of something he did not do. He opened his mouth, intent on making that point very clear. But somehow, as it always was when he was dealing with Grimmjow, that was not quite how it came out.

 

“I'm only picking up what you couldn't hold onto.”

 

“...”

 

Ichigo watched as Grimmjow blinked once, ultramarine eyes widening with shock and filling with murderous intentions, while the bulge of his throat jumped in time with a strangled sound of disbelief.

 

Ichigo cringed inside. Did he _want_ Grimmjow to hit him? He _must_ , or else why would he have said that?

 

Ichigo hadn't actually taken the girl's number in the end. And he never would have. Grimmjow must have known that. Christ, he heard everything else when he wanted to. But maybe he really didn't know. And, pressed bare back against the cold locker room wall, Ichigo was feeling a strong and growing inclination to leave it that way. He braced, waiting for the painful free-for-all that was headed his way.

 

But it never came.

 

“Ahem.”

 

Kensei Muguruma and the Reaper's goalie, Abari Renji, strolled into the locker room after pausing in the doorway to seize up the growing situation. Kensei simply cleared his throat and regarded the both of them with a meaningful look, not expecting to have to use words for Grimmjow and Ichigo to understand what he meant. Neither man turned their heads, aware of who had entered the room, but Ichigo saw Grimmjow flinch noticeably, like an attack dog that had just received a command to release its quarry.

 

Ichigo's apricot brows drew up out of their frown in awe. _That_ was a neat trick.

 

Though Kensei had already broken up the bulk of the argument without so much as a word, it w as Renji who spoke first. He rolled his head and sighed loudly, making it obvious that he was at the end of his own rope.

 

“Would _you_ two just _get_ a room,” he groaned. All kidding aside.

 

Blue and orange both stiffened. The bluenet's hand fell away from Ichigo's chest, and Ichigo dropped back onto the soles of his feet, palm automatically rubbing at the skin of his collar bone, which was suddenly burning more than it should. His heart too was pitching a fit, and relief washed through him like a gust of fresh air as Grimmjow turned away.

 

The sexta bent to the side and grabbed his hockey bag off the floor where he'd dumped it between Ichigo and the doorway. Grimmjow was distracted enough by the redhead's comment to leave things with Ichigo be for the moment. Humour like that was far from abnormal in the men's locker room, but the suggestion still irked the bluenet in a way he wasn't prepared for. The comment had instantly filled his head with the image of Ichigo still in his grip, but pinned against the wall of a bedroom, or pressed into the sheets of a bed. He realized then, that the argument had left him half hard. Unless he wanted the appearance of his growing hard-on to become the subject of conversation, he had to let Ichigo go.

 

Grimmjow grunted as he padded by the loud-mouthed goalie, running his eyes up and down his long torso with disdain while Renji eyed him back with suspicion. The enforcer tilted his head quickly to the side with an audible crack. He was done with people getting in between him and Ichigo. Unfortunately, he couldn't injure the team's goalie, but maybe Grimmjow could just... smack him around a little.

 

“Hey, Grim,” Kensei called, his friendly tone edged with the trademark authority that Grimmjow couldn't ignore.. “Got a pic here of my baby girl from her birthday party. Come an' see.” Kensei grinned as he held up his phone. “Total cake face.”

 

Grimmjow held Renji's gaze for a moment, then nodded at the smiling Kensei and made his way across the room, leaving Renjii to expel a long breath. Damn, but Grimmjow had left him feeling a little shaky. Not a good condition for a goaltender. As Renji rifled through his gear, he wondered how the hell Kurosaki could go up against Grimmjow like that day after day without becoming a total basket case. Renji flicked his head to the right, his gaze travelling past Shiro, to where Ichigo still stood in the corner. The kid hadn't even moved. Renji squinted as he considered the young forward. He looked like he was caught up in some internal fantasy... probably of launching himself at the Sexta... or perhaps... he wasn't very good at this, but, perhaps his expression was more that of somebody feeling the sting of rejection. _That_ Renji was familiar with. He supposed it made a little bit of sense. Temperament aside, Ichigo was a guy who liked to get along. But he and Grimmjow were oil and water. He paused a moment, before mentally shrugging off the subject. Their problem was significant, but he had bigger things to think about right now, like protecting his goal crease.

 

Ichigo simmered in the corner while he watched the back of the blue-haired man head to the other side of the ring, er, locker room.He mumbled to himself as he began to wrestle off the shirt that seemed to have become hopelessly tangled around his neck. Shiro's crackly voice floated beside his ear as Ichigo finally snapped and ripped the shirt the rest of the way off. He glared at the torn piece of fabric. Looked like he was going home shirtless.

 

“Ichigo, you and Grim ain't getting along again? Heh... Whassat all about?”

 

Ichigo spared the pale-skinned player a sideways glare. Like he didn't know. The jerk was standing right by Grimmjow went it all went down. Ichigo was set to tell Shiro to zip it, but his hard eyes softened as he took in his appearance. The cut under his eye had turned into a healthy shiner, and Ichigo didn't want to let his anger out on the guy when he was probably just asking an innocent question to be helpful. Ichigo took a breath before answering Shiro, and in hushed tones. He didn't need Bionic Ears listening in again.

 

Shiro listened, lending his encouragement in the form of grunts of agreement and eager nods as Ichigo let off a little steam. If Shiro had to go back out there tonight, black-eyed and stiff, he wanted the whole team behind him. Right now, Ichigo was completely out to lunch, and the warm up hadn't even started yet. After last night's performance and the guys' post game chat in the parking lot, the team knew they needed to keep an eye on the two hotheads. Until the coach decided to do something, it was up to them to at least step in discreetly. It was necessary to maintain the peace.

 

“The guy acts like he's our national dish,” Ichigo grumbled.

 

A quizzical frown ghosted across Shiro's face, but he nodded in encouragement.

 

At the other end of the room, similar efforts were underway.

 

Grimmjow huffed as he cinched the belt of his dark blue hockey pants. He gave it an extra tug to tighten it around his toned and tapered waist, not an ounce of fat appearing once it was secured. The blue-haired forward continued to gripe even as he dressed. Kensei was sitting with his back to Grimmjow, out of Grimmjow's line of sight, but still present and listening with his usual patience and humour.

 

“Fucking guy... screws up my lay, mouths off about it, then looks at me like he ain't got a clue about nothin'.”

 

“Ichigo did that?” Kensei asked, surprised. That's not the way Shinji had told it. He shrugged to himself. He was familiar enough with Grimmjow's temper to know that the bluenet was going to put his own Ichigo's-the-cause-of-everything-bad-in-the-world slant to the story, no matter how far from the truth it was. And no amount of arguing would dissuade him when he was in the midst of one of his pig-headed tantrums. Kensei felt a bit sorry for Ichigo, actually. Grimmjow really could be the biggest baby at times.

 

Grimmjow shook his head, the pointed tips of his long, blue bangs the only things loose enough to shake side to side.

 

“Fucking ignorant,” he grumbled,

 

“Don't be shy Grim. Tell us how you really feel,” came the bland reply.

 

“Che. Maybe that little bitch over there is the one I should be fuckin' t'night.”

 

A loud snort of amusement erupted from bench level beside Grimmjow, and the bluenet turned to see what his friend found just so damn funny about that statement. It wasn't like he hadn't make comments like that about his teammates before. It was just obnoxious guy talk. Everybody did it.

 

A head of silver white hair popped up as Kensei abandoned his efforts to lace his skates. Grimmjow glared, but said nothing when the older man sat up straight and twisted around, catching Grimmjow's wary eye with a mischievous smirk. He brought his fist to his mouth and cleared his throat.

 

The clatter of gear and the hum of steady banter ceased, and Kensei's voice rang loud and clear through the entire room as he fearlessly repeated Yoruichi's earlier insult. The one that, although only a few people had been close enough to hear, had already circulated through the entire team and most of the arena staff.

 

“Three inches, eh Jaegerjaquez?” Buy now, Kensei's grin was eating his whole face.

 

Grimmjow's hearty scowl resisted for a moment, before it finally gave way to a cocksure smirk. His reply gained him a round of laughter and playful jeers. One person, though, tucked into the corner, quietly choked on a cough.

 

“Heh. Some people like it that wide.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

Ichigo watched as two of his teammates tipped their heads forward and ground each others' helmets together.

And as he did, he wondered; how was such a routine sound, that clunk of high impact-resistant plastic, able to create such a profound pang of longing inside him?

It was a show of affection. A nuzzle. A brotherly snuggle. It said;  _good luck. I've got your back._

For a player, that kind of camaraderie was supposed to be one of the most special parts of the game. Of course, Ichigo had that as much as any other player in the league, but it was tainted, weakened. The feeling of belonging, watered down with poison.

Even as Ichigo wandered down the player's bench to take a seat, the oppressive vision of lawless blue hair and turbulent eyes kept popping back up, the face overlaid with a skull and crossbones. It was fitting. Ichigo was still replaying tonight's first dispute in his head. And yes, it would be the first, because he would bet both his skates they would be having words again before the night was out. But right now, Ichigo was wondering what he could have done to change things, wishing he had said something different, though he couldn't decide if he would have preferred to slug the bluenet or make peace. It was a fair bet though, that short of grovelling on his knees and giving Grimmjow the perverse admiration he wanted, peace between them was going to remain far beyond the bounds of reality. And words, so far, had gotten them nowhere.

It seemed like violence was the only language the enforcer really understood. Violence and sex.

Grimmjow was well known for his shameless, indulgent ways with the ladies. And he barely had to bat those long, dark eyelashes to get a woman. Whether they were on the road or at home, some daring females would always approach him.

From what Ichigo had seen, ' _come on any and all takers_ ' seemed to be his motto. Not that any of his 'takers' had been anything to sneeze at. In fact, though some screamed trashy to Ichigo, most of his impromptu 'relationships' were with beautiful women. And they were usually taller than average, and athletic. He supposed it made sense. A big brute of guy like Grimmjow probably didn't know how to be gentle. In fact, from what Ichigo had deduced, he just threw them onto the bed and drove into them without even thinking of their needs. The ones Ichigo had heard screaming were probably just the lucky ones.

Perhaps that was why there were so many. Grimmjow was a pig and no girl in her right mind would go back for the same treatment.

Ichigo had noticed, although he had no idea why he would, that Grimmjow hadn't been leaving their games with women in tow like he had just weeks ago. And on their trips, his room had been a little quieter lately. Well, didn't the great predators of the world, like gators and snakes, fast for weeks after binging on their prey? Even a predator needed time to recoup.

Ichigo slumped onto the player's bench as the first period began, aware of the ache in his nuts from last night's mistreatment - compliments of one low-life, woman humping, bastard - but oblivious to the music and enthusiastic noise pouring from the stands. He pulled off his gloves so he could readjust his shoulder pads, eyebrows knotting themselves into a pensive scowl. His mind was already looping back in an obsessive circle to put a finger on his feelings, to make a label for his nemesis.

The poison thing was alright, but it wasn't quite what he was going for.

He felt a small catch as he pulled his hand back out from beneath his jersey. He stared at his fingers, squinting at the small, hard, sliver of skin that stuck out from the side of the nail on his third finger. A moment later, that small piece of dried out flesh was gone, bit clean through and spat out onto the hacked up floor of the players' bench.

That's what he was. Grimmjow was a hangnail on Ichigo's clean cut world.

****X X X** **

"You fuckin' hoser!"

Grimmjow's angry voice echoed across the rink as the play was stopped. The fans cheered with defiance and vigour in his defence. It was all aimed at a Ryoka player who'd tried to call Grimmjow out for charging (jumping before hitting his opponent) near the end of the second period. The hit had looked a bit sketchy, but after a quick review of the tape and a moment of debate, the officials waved it off. They agreed that Grimmjow's feet hadn't left the ice, and the sexta made sure to pass by the Ryoka and rub it in good.

The guy was annoying as shit. Keigo Asano was a snivelling wimp, the armpit of the hockey world as far as Grimmjow was concerned.

"Next time, Jaegerjaquez. You wait," he bleated over his shoulder, skating towards the imagined safety of his bench and his team mates.

Grimmjow easily kept up with him, skirting right past several Ryoka players without so much as an 'if you please'. He could smell the fear rolling off of the miniscule player. Asano was afraid the sexta might snap a rod on him and show his true colours. He would, but what fun would that be when it was so easy? There was less than a challenge there, not even worth his time.

Besides, the guy was about to piss himself, and Grimmjow didn't want to risk getting any of it on him.

"Suck my fat one!" he shouted back. "I don't need to jump to crush a dickless, cum guzzlin' pipsqueak like you."

Keigo scrambled for his team's bench, the look of honesty in his eye telling Grimmjow he may have hit closer to the mark that he'd intended. How about that? Like he was going to apologize for it, though. Not a chance.

Grimmjow at times didn't express himself with words very well. Unless he was angry. Yeah. He had that covered. He knew at least twenty different ways to call someone a cock sucker without actually using either of the words.

In fact, when the sexta was provoked, the words 'loud mouth' were arguably accurate, and seemed to be on special reserve just for him. He had opinions, and he generally voiced them without restraint. But when it came to feelings of a more intimate nature, he was definitely more of a physical guy. Less talk, more  _doing_. That was the way he liked it. And whenever he was " _doing_ ", he expressed himself like a pro.

Somehow Ichigo had found his way into that second category, the one where Grimmjow was more comfortable being physical. Grimmjow just seemed to stumble around him. Sure, he got some shots off. He wasn't a mute. But he just seemed to lose it whenever his eyes met hair so bright it physically hurt to look at, and eyes so full of challenge and furious pride that he damn near burned with the urge to mount the bastard in some base primal show of domination.

The vibration in his hand alerted him a moment too late to the puck that had somehow found its way onto its stick. He watched with some dismay as the black disc bounced away again. When the hell had the game even started up again? It didn't really matter. The play had lasted seconds, and the whistle was blowing to signal the end of the second period.

But it mattered. Where was his head at? Had he really been lost in thought while on the ice? Christ, he had to get his marbles in check, because if he kept up this kind of bullshit, he was going to be traded faster than his hockey card.

****X X X** **

Grimmjow rolled into the dressing room like a tsunami making landfall, gloves and helmet flying in opposite directions. The danger of injuring someone wasn't a concern. He'd been the first one off the ice. And he'd even shoved Kurosaki out of the way just to do it. Not that the orangette would bite, though.

His stick was the last to go. It landed on the bench, bounced once, skidded sideways across the polished surface, then toppled onto the floor by his locker. At least that was one thing he didn't have to round up once he'd cooled off enough to consider it an issue.

Second period was already over and their performance so far had been abysmal. The Ryoka's were a chump team. For crap's sake, they didn't even have snow in their part of their country. Hockey wasn't even in their blood. Yet, somehow, they were racking up points on the Reaper's like a pinball machine. It wasn't the goalie's fault. Renji just had terrible coverage. And the forwards, himself included, seemed completely hopeless. They couldn't have held onto the puck if it was taped to their fucking sticks.

Grimmjow's last nerve was a but distant memory. He was loathed to say it, but he damn near yearned for the days when Ichigo was getting on it. From this vantage point, last night seemed like halcyon days.

Tired, interrupted, hurt, accused, insulted, beaten... Grimmjow was losing it in ways he didn't even recognize anymore.

The heavy clomp and clatter of discouraged men and sharp steel blades poured into the room not a second behind the bluenet, but he barely heard them. His jaw was clenched, and the massive breaths that heaved in and out of his chest were taking the noisy root through his nose. He was pacing too, his path so short he was nearly stalking in tight circles.

He was so far off his game, he couldn't even see the ice anymore. And it was all because of that orange-haired twerp. Grimmjow's mind wouldn't let go of determined brown eyes, forged in flame and hard like an iron landscape.

He'd been so distracted that when he'd gotten into a fight with a Ryoka player, the gangly little shit had somehow managed to get his filthy Ryoka jersey off and up and tangled around Grimmjow's head. He'd been swinging blind until the officials broke it up. When Grimmjow had finally pulled free and realized he had the jersey in his hand as he crossed the empty ice, he'd tossed it into the air, then, in a tantrum fit for a preschooler, tried to drop-kick the other players' jersey out of the building, much to the delight of the fans and some of his teammates.

Well, wasn't that just fucking ducky.

He was a great at providing entertainment. Maybe he should just give up on his dream and join a travelling fucking comedy show.

He pivoted to begin another short strafing run, and the sight of orange hair, both as stunning and pretentious as the setting sun, stopped him in his tracks. The need to kick the shit out of something was roaring in his blood. That colour was like a beacon, a target. Kurosaki was a lie. Nothing could be that beautiful, and be real. He wanted to rip away the layers of arrogance and illusion until he reached the hollow nothing that was encased inside.

But like the shadows that lurked and crawled along the landscape, the Reaper's coach followed. Grimmjow's temper would have to wait. The team needed to forge a new attack. There was no time to lick their wounds. They had fifteen minutes to rest and regroup.

This was supposed to be the point where the coach encouraged the team, told them they  _could_  and they  _would,_  and all that sweet crap. But the coach's pep-talk and words of encouragement sounded a lot more like a scathing rebuke. There was talk of the man retiring from coaching soon, but the yellowed whites of his eyes, and throbbing veins in his neck said something different. He lived for this game, if and when it killed him.

While the coach gave the team a collective spanking, Grimmjow gulped down vast quantities of the Reaper's high performance sports drink, diluted with water to his liking. Tired or not, the bluenet always seemed able to call up vast reserves of anger fuelled energy, with or without supplements.

When the blustering had ended, he looked up, but remained fixed to his seat. He watched as the team began to flow out the door like cooling lava. They weren't in any hurry to get back out on the ice. Once again, the coach had done a bang up job of inspiring confidence. If this was Grimmjow's team, they wouldn't be in this situation at all.

Downcast eyes slid to the side with interest as half the team filed out the door, number fifteen lagging behind to commiserate with one of his teammates. Grimmjow squeezed his water bottle one last time, the plastic casing crumpling and caving in as much as his cheeks as he sucked out the last drops of liquid.

Kensei Muguruma patted each of the players who passed him by on the shoulder before he made to follow. The rest of the team was still making adjustments after taking a leak and would be right behind them. Kensei nodded across the room at the bluenet still parked on the bench. Grimmjow was a virtual Ryoka clearing house tonight, sending the smartest men scattering, and removing several unfortunate players from the game. Despite his bulldog performance, the Reaper's were still losing. Even his best wasn't enough. Kensei could tell that the stress was getting to his friend, and he wanted to give the bluenet some extra encouragement, but they were all in the same boat. And knowing Grimmjow, he would only resent Kensei's interference, well intentioned or not, deeming it as hand holding.

Instead, Kensei turned to leave, but a small scene behind him caught his attention, and he made one last pit stop before heading back towards the ice.

Shinji had muttered something to Ichigo that Kensei didn't quite pick up. It must have been good, because even Ichigo was grinning, sardonic though it was.

"What's that, Hirako?" Kensei prodded.

Shinji gave the team's captain a conspiratory eye before leaning in to enlighten the older man without making himself heard aloud, lest the coach come waltzing back through the door.

"The higher the monkey climbs up the tree, the easier it is to see his big asshole."

Kensei couldn't contain the laugh, and it was out before he could stop it. He shook his head in admonishment at Shinji and Ichigo, but grinned all the way out of the room. It was unprofessional to be making snide comments about their own coach during game time, but Shinji Hirako made an excellent point. The man's popularity had taken a grand nose dive over the past year. He didn't seem capable of making the changes the team needed, and everyone was suffering as a result. They needed real leadership, and there was only so much Kensei could do to muster the men's spirit. He was just as worn out as the rest of them.

The moment Kensei was gone, Grimmjow rose.

He didn't even wait to reach the other side of the room before he started in on his partner.

"Why the fuck am I even out there wasting my time on a piece 'a shit player like you?"

The orangette didn't react quite as Grimmjow had expected at first. Instead, he brought one arm out and stilled Shinji, who looked ready to defend him.

Ichigo produced an agitated sound as he swung around to face the bluenet. Ichigo had a thumping migraine that was beating the shit out of his skull, and he had a name for it. Grimmjow. If there had been a pill invented to take the Grimmjow out of his head, he'd have swallowed it. It might have seemed like the attack was coming out of nowhere, but the two of them had locked horns during their shifts more than once, and Ichigo had received what he liked to call  _Grimmjow's stink eye_  a few times.

"Oh, go suck eggs, Jaegerjaquez," Ichigo snapped.

Ichigo needed to stay away from Grimmjow right now. He could feel a serpentine hunger moving through his veins where blood should have been. And telling Grimmjow to chew on a chicken's ass was just about the nicest way he could think of at the moment to let Grimmjow know that he should back off.

Apparently, Grimmjow took that as an invitation, and Ichigo found himself backed into the same corner as before. His hard plastic shoulder pads knocked against the wall, muffled by the fabric of his jersey. It didn't hurt, but he grunted anyway. He was becoming far too familiar with this position.

"I don't get why everybody is so in love with your ass," Grimmjow huffed. "You ain't done nothing for this team in weeks."

Ichigo's jaw opened then closed again, and he settled on a deep breath, instead of the scathing retort that had jumped into his head and nearly rolled from the tip of his tongue. Oh, how Ichigo wanted to tell Grimmjow he could go straight to the depths of hell and take his stupid opinions with him. But he couldn't. Because no matter how much of what the bluenet said might sound like empty mudslinging, Grimmjow was basically right.

"You got no excuses with me keeping 'em off your back. If yer gonna keep taking a paycheck, the least you can do is put it in the fuckin' net once in awhile."

"Back off, Grimmjow. I'm not doing this with you."

The statement had about the same affect as a fly swatter on a bee hive.

"Just 'cause yer here doesn't mean you can slack off," the bluenet persisted.

Ichigo was floored. This? Coming from Grimmjow? It was... un-swallowable. Just because he'd had a bad run didn't mean he was worthless. Grimmjow was throwing boulder sized rocks in a very fragile glass house. The blue-haired forward was no better, and Ichigo wasn't going to just stand there and take his shit.

"What did you say?" Ichigo bit out, voice lowered, hands tightened inside his gloves. He wished he hadn't put them on now.

Ichigo pushed off the wall and took a sudden step forward until his chest was pressed up against Grimmjow. The bluenet wasn't expecting it at all, and Ichigo's body weight was enough to force Grimmjow to take several stumbling steps back towards the centre of the room. Grimmjow grunted, and cursed inwardly. Little fucker was quick when he wanted to be, and strong to boot. He had to give him that.

Ichigo's gaze remained level, but his eyes were hazed with anger. Grimmjow couldn't deny the giddy little thrill that raced through him, that he was gettin' off on crossing swords with Ichigo and pushing him around. For the moment, he felt a sense of control again. This was a damn sight better than spinning in circles on the ice. If they'd been playing on a lake, Grimmjow would have drown himself in freezing waters long ago.

Grimmjow ignored the noises being made by the other players still in the room. Someone, Renji, muttered for them to take it easy, and moved to Ichigo's back, but neither of them gave a damn. They both had scores to settle, didn't they. Grimmjow wanted to feel Ichigo break in his hands, and Ichigo was just as eager to rumble with Grimmjow.

Grimmjow could feel it.

"You're nothin' but dead weight, and I'm sick of ya."

Grimmjow chuffed in disgust. No reaction. What was Ichigo waiting for?

The blue-eyed player's lip curled and he fixed Ichigo with a look dripping with disdain. Kurosaki Ichigo was supposed to be a great asset to the team. But his presence had been nothing but trouble for the sexta. If he would just take his shit and get gone, then Grimmjow might be able to breath again.

"Go back to the minors, Kurosaki," he sneered. "You belong there."

Ichigo had been hoping against hope that Grimmjow would wrap it up and move on with his life until  _that_  moment. The sentiment drove a spike into Ichigo's gut, and he finally found his tongue.

"And you're just a goon, Grimmjow. If it weren't for that, you'd have no business in this game." His voice was as calm as frozen water and just as cold.

Everybody seemed to move at once.

Orange and blue moved towards each other, closing the gap and stopping only when a blockade of  _suddenly everywhere_ hands and arms latched onto both men's arms and shoulders and pulled them up short.

"Yer nothing but a smart mouth punk," Grimmjow snapped.

"Tch! Says the old guy," Ichigo crowed.

"What? Who you callin' old?" Grimmjow's voice cracked and broke as it reached a high note. "I'm twenty-five, ya stupid little shit!"

"Oooh, I'm sorry, says the stupid little shit. Your battery low? You need me to speak up?"

The other man's azure eyes snapped open with surprise and rage as the orange-haired player began spewing ridiculous insults like a fountain. Ichigo was letting their argument veer away from all logic. He seemed to know that a fight Grimmjow couldn't win with reason would only spur him faster towards violence.

Ichigo wanted to throw it down, but he wanted Grimmjow to lose it first. And oh, didn't Grimmjow just fall for it.

"With the way you play, you're gonna be old and used up long before me, Jaegerjaquez..."

Grimmjow jerked.

"You fuck..."

"...and when you're gone, I'll still be playing the game!"

"Yer..."

"Look at you. Covered in bruises all the time. You think you're gonna last? Why don't you just save us all the trouble and retire now?"

"Watch yer mouth, you fuckin..."

Grips tightened all around as both men stretched and strained towards one another, pulling fiercely against strong muscles that held them fast. But Ichigo didn't let up. It was his turn to go off, and this blue-haired bastard had it coming.

"Oh, don't worry Grimmjow," Ichigo taunted. "I'll be sure to wave at you from the ice whenever I score. I won't forget ya."

A savage growl and the snapping of teeth was the only response Ichigo got. It would have sent most reasonable men scurrying, but Ichigo was far from reasonable and far too pissed to be afraid. And it wasn't like he didn't have a temper of his own. In fact, he wanted nothing more than to watch the bluenet's composure crumble. It was entertaining as hell.

And if the other men would just back off and let them fucking  _go_ , they could sort their shit out in a hurry, the way they wanted to. Grimmjow looked like he was ready to throw it all away and murder Ichigo then and there, but Ichigo couldn't have cared less. Right now, he was so wound, he was barely making sense, and he couldn't have stopped if he wanted to.

"You think you're some kinda immortal God, Grimmjow? Well, I've got news for you... Mother Nature? And Father Time...?" Ichigo jerked forward, rising to the tips of his skates. "Undefeated pal!"

Grimmjow was about as flustered as he was pissed at Ichigo's nonsensical tirade.

"Yer an idiot!" he shrieked.

"Yeah? Well I'm an idiot who's a lot better off when  _you're_  not around!" Ichigo yelled, no less incensed.

They  _both_  seemed to stagger at the verbal punch.

Grimmjow's mouth stayed wrenched open, right where he'd left it. Ichigo blinked once, a look of surprise pulling the sneer in his upper lip back down as he stared into eyes like blue coated steel, waiting a single heart beat for the next inevitable cheap shot.

Apparently Grimmjow had swallowed his own tongue, because other than a catch in his throat, he wasn't making a sound. He looked, angry, yes of course. But the way the skin around his forehead and eyes pulled taught made him look almost... wounded.

Ichigo won the battle to regain his poise first.

And wounded was just what Ichigo was going for. He took advantage of his partner's silence and launched into another tirade that was sure to stir him up.

"What happened after you left last night, huh? Eh?! We won! You think you know so much? Can you add that one up in your head, professor Jaegerjaquez?

He seemed to be compressing.

"Ffffff-"

"Proof is in the pudding, Grimmjow!"

Right in the feel-bads.

At once, the pressure in the room reached its peak and broke as if there were a physical snapping of the air.

"Rrrrrrrr... You little FREAK! I'mma tear you a new one!" the bluenet bellowed.

Grimmjow lunged forward, and if Ichigo had any common sense left at all, he would have cut and run. Instead, Ichigo tried to meet him.

It was everything the other players could do to keep the two struggling offence-men from breaking free and going at it like wild animals in the locker room.

As the wall of struggling men swayed back and forth, players from both sides of the confrontation shared concerned looks, though multiple sets of eyes had rolled as the argument completed its downward spiral and degraded into sheer stupidity. Several players had amused faces, while others looked upon the fight with the apprehension it deserved.

It was a bad scene. Very, very bad.

For them. For the team.

Players squabbling to the point of wishing each other a brutal and bloody death was not good for team moral, and everybody was beginning to feel it.

Their feud was poison in the atmosphere.

"Hey! Break it up!" Kensei's commanding voice echoed off the walls of the locker room, and everybody seemed to freeze at once, knit together in a tangled quilt of arms and bodies.

"What the hell is GOING ON HERE?" he snapped. "The coach sends me back to find out where the hell half his team is, and THIS is what you're doing?" The older man glared across the rabble of men, until his eyes landed like atom bombs on the two men at the centre of the chaos.

"We're in the middle of a game for Christ's sake! Get it together and save your squabbling for your own time!"

It took a lot of bull to push the team's captain into the red, and he was damn well in the zone now. He had already said his peace to both the men and gotten nowhere, and like everyone else on the team, he'd left it up to the two "adults" to act professional despite their problems. Kensei turned to the redheaded goalie who was still straining to hold Ichigo back.

"Renji, get Kurosaki out of here. Now," he barked.

Renji reacted instantly to the command, but grunted in surprise when he tried and ultimately failed to move the orangette. There was no way Ichigo was this heavy, but it was like trying to use his bare hands to move a old growth tree stump who's roots were firmly planted deep into the earth.

Even as Renji struggled with his task, Ichigo's charred brown eyes never left Grimmjow's, who's own eyes stayed frozen on him in a murderous blue glare. The two men seemed to be connected at the eyes. They weren't spewing venom at each other any more, but somehow they were still exchanging unpleasant words. It was easy to see that the thoughts were there.

Renji sent a pleading look to Shinji who was beside him, and with assistance from the other player, Renji finally yanked Ichigo hard enough to throw the orangette off balance, and began herding him forcefully towards the door.

Kensei reached a solid arm between the huddle of players, who were still keeping Grimmjow in place, and gripped the bluenet's shoulder firmly.

"Grimmjow. Cool it, would you? We've got a game to play." His voice was level now, but firm. It was the best way to grab the sexta's attention and hopefully calm him down.

Grimmjow's eyes just barely flickered towards Kensei, the only sign that he had even heard him. He was still completely focused on the orangette and watching intently as Ichigo was shoved out of the room by the red-haired goalie. It wasn't until the younger man was out of sight that Grimmjow even twitched.

None of the grips on him had lessened, though. No one was going to let him go until they felt the muscles that were bunched and wound like steel cables beneath their hands begin to uncoil, and it was clear that the bristling sexta was ready to stand down.

"Hn."

Finally, the bluenet pulled back, shrugging out of the barrier of hands that had kept him from reaching his target. He twisted around and gathered up his gloves and helmet, shoving his gear roughly into place as the rest of the players dispersed and began to the same. They were slow about it though, their eyes still watching him warily in case he should make a move.

"Soul Reapers," Kensei yelled to the group of men who seemed incapable of moving fast enough for his liking. "Let's go already. We should already be on the bench. Third's about to start."

The men jumped into action, as if just remembering where they were and what they were supposed to be doing tonight. They began filing quickly out the door, skates and sticks clattering. Kensei reached out and patted Grimmjow on the shoulder as he took up the back of the line.

"Keep it together out there, Grim."

"Che."

"Grim. Focus, and just do your job, kay? We'll deal with this later, alright?"

"Hn."

Grimmjow spared him a dangerous, narrowed glare, defiance and disbelief waging war behind his eyes. But after a moment of silence, he nodded affirmative. He didn't dare speak right now. His brain was steaming inside his skull, and the only ammo he had would turn the air blue. He was sick and fuck'n tired of being told to do his job. What in the flying fuck did they think he'd been doing all this time anyway? If one more person told him to do his job he was going to light the ice on fuck'n fire and burn the whole fuck'n place to the ground.

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

No one.

 

Not the team. Not the fans. Not the officials.

 

No one could have anticipated the events of the third period.

 

Outside Sokyoku Hill Arena, nestled in the heart of Seireitei, on a crisp, dark Saturday night in December, row after row of empty vehicles sat in frozen silence. A few die-hard smokers huddled by the entrance ways, the red glow of their cigarettes bright but short as they hurried to return to their seats. Security guards paced the lot with lazy steps and heavy flashlights. Though the breeze from the afternoon still picked up a stray bit of garbage and played it with idle hands across the grounds, the air was infused with that sense of peaceful solitude that only comes at night.

 

But inside...

 

It was a real shit show.

 

A Grimmjow-Ichigo extravaganza.

 

The ice gleamed like a marquee on Broadway beneath the bright lights of the massive stadium. Players from both teams poured back onto a surface that had been left scarred and pitted from hard stops and sharp turns. But now, after being shaved, scraped, washed and squeegeed by two Zambonis, the ice looked clean and untouched.

 

To an optimist, it may have looked like a fresh start, but the Soul Reaper's returned with a forced sense of hope.

 

The wintery battle grounds glistened under the bright lights, reflecting team colours like a watery mirror. The Reaper's home turf was not yet touched by the blades of razor sharp skates in the third period. It was liquid smooth, but soon to be chopped up and scoured into a dull white surface, its appearance from afar, the texture of bleached bone.

 

**X X X**

 

Grimmjow's grudge against him was getting old.

 

Ichigo had tried to go about his business as much as possible, but he still felt the constant nip of the sexta's teeth at the tender skin of his heels. If Grimmjow hated Ichigo so fucking much, then why wouldn't he just leave him the hell alone? Why did he have to push so hard at the teetering edge of Ichigo's resolve to play nice? Ichigo had been raised to play with sportsman-like conduct. He'd fight to protect himself or his teammates in a pinch, but never go looking for it, never betray his morals and seek out revenge. He still believed in that.

 

Ichigo watched the players on the ice scramble for the puck as they passed by the bench like a rushing current. As he tracked the play to the far end, his eyes couldn't help but find their way back to an angular jaw, smooth, straight nose, and large, hard, predatory eyes that flickered with excitement and hunger.

 

Ichigo could almost hear the bluenet's heart jumping in anticipation as his upper lip twitched and his eyes fixated onto another player who had just committed some kind of atrocity. A dog waiting to be unleashed. No shadow gathered itself beneath the subtle plane of his cheekbones, but his appearance remained rugged and rabid. It was all in the eyes. All in the face.

 

The face of the man who'd tried to pick a fight with him, not once, but twice tonight.

 

If Ichigo had come to just one safe conclusion today, it was this: the man had diagnosable psychological problems. And what a waste.

 

Physically at the top of the gene pool, he had so much going for him; his potential as player, as a friend, as a lover. And yet, he abused it all.

 

It wasn't any of Ichigo's business what Grimmjow chose to throw away, but somehow, it had become his problem. Just what was so special about Ichigo? Why was there so much animosity directed at him? Teammates disagreed all the time. You didn't get twenty-some testosterone-fuelled men together in a rink, outfit them with armour, hand them blades and sticks, tell them they _had to win_... and expect things to run smoothly.

 

Grimmjow argued with the other guys on the team like anybody else. Ichigo though... Grimmjow seemed to have reserved a special place of loathing for him. And damn himself for letting it get to him. Grimmjow was living rent free inside his head, and no amount of concentration was going to evict him.

 

**X X X**

 

Old? Retired? Better off without him?

 

Everything that had come out of the orangette's mouth had served to drive the roots of Grimmjow's hate a little deeper into the ground. But at the moment, the slams weren't the thing he was fixated on.

 

At some point in their argument, Ichigo had been harping like some fucking mother-hen about Grimmjow's bruises. Of all things.

 

That unwanted attention hadn't even registered until Grimmjow was back out on the bench and waiting for the starting line to set the tone for the third period, hopefully in their favour.

 

Now he was just confused. Ichigo hated his guts, and damned if Grimmjow hadn't made sure of it. Not gonna last? Where in the fuck did he get off? Why did he bother to bring up Grimmjow's health? He already had a mother. And she already fussed over him in her own masterful way.

 

A tight little snort left Grimmjow. Woman had an accomplished hand at packing bags to send along with him on his guilt trips whenever he showed up at her home looking like he'd been mauled by a meat grinder. Which was pretty often. His pa never did that. The old man would just drop one meaty hand onto Grimmjow's head, rifle Grimmjow's hair and tell him 'Gear down big rig. Just remember to have some fun.'

 

Grimmjow's jaw muscles tightened and he twice blinked hard against the chill of the air before the dampness was gone. _That_ was a subject that wasn't going to see the light of day for as long as Grimmjow could contain it.

 

Almost without his consent, his attention found its way onto the face of his foe, and his breathing quickened, riled that Ichigo had managed to drag up such a sore subject. Whether he had or not, was mute. He was getting blamed for this anyway. Grimmjow mentally tossed the offence onto the roaring bonfire at his core and watched as it rose sky high, sparking and reaching with wild twitching fingers into black starless skies.

 

His only refuge had been the ice. A place for rage as old as faded memories and as fresh as new wounds to sluice through the openings of a haphazard barricade in a semi-controlled release. And now, everywhere he turned, he met either lethal sarcasm or misguided concern. When did hockey get to be so fucking confusing? The sexta let his eyes slide shut and a long breath escape from shuddering lungs.

 

When all the air was gone, azure eyes popped open and resumed their scan of the ice and its living, breathing contents.

 

Cold and unaffected.

 

**X X X**

 

“Ahhh, goddammit! Sonofa....!” The coach screamed at no one in particular as the Reaper's gave up yet another goal. That made it six to two, and they were only seven minutes into the third.

 

Ichigo's line had already done two short shifts and they were up again.

 

“Where the fuck was our defence? Does anybody around here know how to play hockey?” A rattled bass boomed from somewhere beyond the forward's left shoulder. “Get out and there and get us some goddamn points!”

 

Ichigo growled under his breath. He'd had enough of insults tonight.

 

It was with no sense of pleasure that Ichigo climbed over the bench and dumped himself back into the fray. At best, it got him away from the cursing, spitting man who had been stalking red-faced and ox-breathed behind the players for most of the game.

 

He didn't blame the guy for being upset. The man was under a lot of pressure, and Ichigo for sure wasn't helping. But he had to question his style. He'd become a little abusive as the game had carried on. Ichigo knew the stakes were different here, but regardless, in his opinion, Urahara was by far a better coach.

 

He skated out to centre ice with the weight of a hundred missed goals on his shoulders. Grimmjow glared at him. Ichigo glared right back. Their fight, interrupted and unresolved, bubbled back to the surface, and Ichigo gripped his stick a little harder.

 

It was when his mind reached Grimmjow's suggestion to go back to the minors and he found that it almost sounded like a teasing proposition, that he knew the pressure was getting to him.

 

**X X X**

 

Ichigo took a shot off the draw. It hit the post and was scooped up by the Ryoka's defence man, who passed it behind the net to his teammate. The Reaper's defence men pulled back as the Ryoka's surged forward into Reaper territory. Ichigo took a run at the player, skimming past one of his own and narrowly missing a hip check from one of his rivals.

 

The player dumped the puck just wide of the Reaper's net. Renji was alert and redirected it with the edge of his stick. The puck landed in the hands of Ikkaku Madarame, who slapped it away as he was rushed by a Ryoka offence man. It skipped across the ice and landed on Ichigo's waiting stick. That made him a target. Ichigo heard Grimmjow call for the puck just as he took a solid hit into the boards which left him on his knees, but otherwise fine.

 

The puck was gone again. Grimmjow cursed at him. It wasn't a surprise. Grimmjow was going on and on like a colicky baby, and Ichigo could feel the growing buzz of anger, like an approaching swarm of bees. Ichigo grunted, heaved himself up, and threw himself back into the play.

 

Ichigo rushed into the Ryoka's zone as the play continued, passing by Grimmjow who was digging the puck out from between two player's legs. A moment later, Ichigo twisted his head and ducked as Grimmjow turned and fired the puck a mile wide of the net, but far too close to him as it ticked off his visor.

 

The play continued but a cold stone sank in his gut as he realized how close that had been. Getting hit with a puck was like taking a giant, frozen, rubber bullet. If you caught one in the head, it could break your jaw or knock you clean out of this world.

 

He couldn't say for sure if it had been on purpose, but he couldn't _not_ say it either. Grimmjow was being down right belligerent today.

 

The black disc visited every stick on the ice as the players battled back and forth without incident. The crowd hummed and awed, but stayed relatively mellow. Above the noise, the occasional whistle from the crowd blended in with sharp calls across the ice as players communicated with each other, the clatter of sticks on the hard surface, and the rattling sound of the boards giving way as players were thrown against them. Both teams had taken weak shots at the goalies but they hadn't been able to make anything happen. It had become a game of follow the bouncing puck.

 

Then they were defending once again, players crisscrossing the ice as they all tried to get a piece of the puck. Grimmjow jimmied the puck loose from a large Ryoka player who he'd pinned against the boards, then spun around as an elbow rose to greet him in the jaw. The officials didn't see it, and Grimmjow didn't care. He had the puck.

 

Then he didn't.

 

Ichigo had flashed by and scooped it up with a long reach, and passed it off to Shiro who was yelling that _he was open_ from the other side of the net. Shiro's attempt was deflected by the goalie's pads, but Ichigo caught the rebound and tried again.

 

Grimmjow was spitting acid. The muscles in his chest were squeezing themselves together like shrink wrap under a heat gun.

 

“Greedy fuck!” he snapped, as he rushed to reposition himself for the rebound he knew was coming. Ichigo had the puck, so... you know.

 

Grimmjow's curse at his back made Ichigo wince in anger. The puck skimmed just over the net, hit the glass, and was batted out of the air by a Ryoka player before being sent down the ice.

 

Ichigo swore out loud. The play had turned once again. Captain congeniality was in fine form. And Ichigo was aching to collapse on the bench. This was becoming the longest shift in history. In reality, it had been less than a two minutes.

 

With a collective sigh, the Reaper's rushed down the ice and regrouped to defend their end. The stalemate was beginning to agitate both teams and the play was getting rougher. Ichigo played bumper cars with with a Ryoka player and was upended along the boards in the neutral zone. He shook his head and panted as he righted himself.

 

Everybody seemed to pile into the end zone as if the rink had been tipped on its end. Shiro tried to clear it, but it was picked up by a Ryoka player at the blue line who faked a shot then chipped it back to another player right behind him. The goal was to screen the shot so Renji couldn't see it coming. The crack of a slap shot echoed, but again Renji saved it.

 

The fans cheered. They weren't winning, but they were holding their own for now. And after five goals, it was the best Renji had looked all night.

 

The muted cries of two players were drowned out by the din of the crowd. Grimmjow had circled back, but not quite in time to stop the shot. Instead, he had thrown a clean hit, just a bump, which had knocked the two Ryoka player's on their ass. He barely spared the domino-ed pair a dark scowl.

 

When he looked up, his eyes flashed with hunger. The deflected puck was chipped out of the corner and driven down the ice, right to him. He caught it with the edge of his stick and spun around. He was at the edge of the neutral zone and the puck was his.

 

It happened fast. Back on his feet in the neutral zone, Ichigo paralleled the sexta as they both raced down the ice. He cut in front of a fast moving Ryoka, then shoved him hard enough to show him to his seat, to give Grimmjow the break he needed. With two teams hot on their heels, they had about two seconds to take advantage of their breakaway.

 

The goalie dropped into a tight defensive stance as he backed into his crease, limiting the space they had to shoot at as best he could. He watched the blue-haired Reaper skate towards him at break-neck speed, but his eyes snapped nervously to his right. Kurosaki Ichigo was coming. And until recently, he'd had a reputation for being deadly accurate. The kid might be off his game, but the goalie couldn't afford to take that chance. Though the sexta was the one with the puck, the goalie kept his attention divided between the two oncoming players.

 

Grimmjow twisted his wrist and snapped the blade of his stick upward, taking the shot as he flew at the net, hoping to sneak it between the Ryoka's distracted goalkeeper and the post, but the puck hit the steel bar and bounced erratically to the right of the bluenet and skipped towards the corner.

 

He was coming in too hot to turn right in time without hitting the boards. So, Grimmjow cut left, swinging behind the net, his blades catching hard into the ice surface and nearly tripping him up as he tried to jam on the brakes. He was looking back over his shoulder, hoping to retrieve the puck, or at least get himself back into the play. The other players were already converging on the Ryoka's patch of ice, and Grimmjow only had seconds left before he had to hit the bench.

 

He was ticked now and breathing hard. It was personal. That had been so fucking close.

 

Ichigo skimmed along the boards as he passed behind the net as well, eyes locked on the wayward puck. He didn't think Grimmjow was going to skirt so far behind the net after taking that shot, but the sexta did, and Ichigo couldn't quite stop himself in time.

 

Like all good movie moments, there was the briefest point in time where brown eyes locked with blue before their shoulders caught hard enough to be heard. They slammed into one another, the impact dropping both players in a cataclysmic collision.

 

Ichigo fell with a hard grunt, and Grimmjow went down with a voluble screech of indignation.

 

The crowd _oohed_ in sympathy at the on-ice collision behind the net as the play carried on around the two fallen soldiers. The fan's faces pinched in discomfort. They could almost feel the _pain_ of the impact as much as the embarrassment.

 

The two players were both slow to get up, both wishing they could turn back time for a do-over instead of having to live down the humiliation of taking out their own player in front of most of North America.

 

Unusual? Not really. Embarrassing? You betcha.

 

Grimmjow was incensed as he tried to shake off the other player. It wasn't enough for Ichigo to argue and complain and be a general pain in Grimmjow's ass. Now he had to tie him up and physically keep him from playing too?

 

“Jesus Christ, Kurosaki! If you're not gonna help, get off the ice!” Grimmjow snapped as he worked to disentangle himself from number fifteen, teeth gnashing together.

 

Ichigo's own teeth rattled, and he nipped at the end of his tongue while he tried to rise to one knee. Grimmjow was violently yanking his skate blade away from Ichigo's own blade where they had somehow managed to hook. Ichigo's laces had been sliced in the fall, and a rogue loop had tangled around Grimmjow's blade. And now the bluenet was kicking and pulling with absolutely no care for its affect on the younger player. The action caused Ichigo to tumble back down from one knee and land against the bluenet once more.

 

As Ichigo fell forward, he landed with his hands on Grimmjow's chest, narrowly avoiding hitting the bluenet's face with his own. Ocean blue eyes drew wide with surprise as Ichigo's scarlet face stopped short a mere inch from his, then suddenly pulled away.

 

Ichigo couldn't get himself away fast enough. Grimmjow was such an idiot. Ichigo _had_ been helping him, despite what a dick he'd been. And now he was being an even bigger dick. He was dragging out this embarrassing scenario in front the nation on purpose, and Ichigo was ready to blow his stack.

 

“Why don't you watch where you're going, you dick!” Ichigo kicked out wildly as he desperately tried to yank himself free. “You suck at this!”

 

“You aughta know, you cock sucker!” Grimmjow shot back, furious. Wait. Had he just insulted Ichigo or himself? He couldn't think. Ichigo was squirming and writhing on top of him like a one-legged prostitute.

 

“Fuck you! Maybe if you tried using your stick to aim the puck instead of just flailing it around you could get us a goal and we wouldn't...” the orangette groused back. The rest of his words were muffled in the rumpled folds of Grimmjow's sweaty jersey as he face-planted against the bluenet's chest. Ichigo growled as he attempted to haul himself back onto his skates, using Grimmjow's chest and stomach to push himself roughly away from the blue-haired menace.

 

Frankly, Ichigo was beginning to panic. Their skates were hooked, Ichigo's stick was pinned beneath Grimmjow, and Grimmjow's stick was..... Was that Grimmjow's stick?! Ichigo jerked back. The more they moved, the tighter their entanglement, and the more compromising their situation seemed to become. As Ichigo struggled to rise, his glove slid down the bigger man's wall of muscle, resting low against his navel. Ichigo pushed off against the padding that rose up and protected most of Grimmjow's stomach.

 

The hard shove pulled a low, alarming sound from the fallen sexta, much higher in pitch than he should have produced given the situation. Grimmjow hoped it sounded like pained grunt to Ichigo. It was definitely not a whine.

 

“ _Guhh_... Maybe if you quit hoggin' the fuckin' thing once in a while I _would_ , you selfish fuck!” Grimmjow spat, as he too finally up-righted himself, staggering before he found his legs and skated away, retreating to the side of the net.

 

“Why don't you just go hit someone, Jaegerjaquez?” Ichigo snapped from the opposite side of the goal crease, face beginning to redden further. “It's all your good at!”

 

He didn't really mean it, but he didn't regret it. Words were just sticks and stones to throw. Ichigo couldn't even hear the crowd cheering on the Reapers, who were desperately holding their own at the other end, beyond the blood river now thrumming in his ears. In truth, it had been less than fifteen seconds since their collision, but it felt like this conversation had been going on for weeks.

 

Why was that? Oh, right. Because it had.

 

As both men circled around to the front of the goal crease, the Ryoka goalie's eyes stayed fixed on the play that had moved to the far end of the ice. Ichigo and Grimmjow stopped on either side of the goal crease, their sudden absence from the game leaving the remaining Reapers back in their own zone, trying to defend themselves while stuck in a dangerous five on three disadvantage.

 

“You wanna find out first-fucking-hand how good I am, asshole?” Grimmjow yelled back.

 

The goalie's attention finally strayed from the game as the two men moved to meet each other in front of the net, effectively blocking his view, postures stiff and intimidating, teeth bared like slavering dogs trapped behind a wire fence.

 

The Ryoka's goalie wasn't the only one to become entranced with the heated interaction going on behind the play. While the Reaper's fought valiantly to defend their zone with only three men, the attention of the crowd began to waiver, one by one, heads turning towards the bizarre scene. While the fans were left to wonder and murmur amongst themselves, the announcers did their best to explain the growing situation to the viewers at home.

 

“ _And... what is this? What is going on behind the play?”_

 

“ _Number 15, Kurosaki and number 6, Jaegerjaquez seem to have stalled in front of the opposing team's net while the play carries on without them.”_

 

“ _They're having what appears to be a heated exchange of words. They're both well out of position and the play has moved into their defensive zone.”_

 

“ _What on earth are they doing? It's like they've forgotten they're in the middle of a hockey game!”_

 

“Oh, I've _seen_ how _good_ you are, Jaegerjaquez!” Ichigo sneered, gesturing towards the net. “We'd be better off if you'd just give it up and pass off the puck to someone who knows how to shoot it.”

 

Grimmjow winced at the dig, the small element of truth in it making it sting like it was intended. But Grimmjow's bad streak of luck boiled down solely to the orangette's beef with him, and he pushed forward, seething, and looming over the smaller player, lashing back with equal intensity.

 

“And I suppose you think that _someone_ should be you? Like you've been doing _anything_ worthwhile for this team!” Grimmjow's gloved hand was up in front of Ichigo's face, jabbing at the empty air, but Ichigo barely flinched, even when the glove came down... “Yer nothin' but a distraction! The only reason I ain't scoring is 'cause _you're_ always in the way, you cocksucker!” ...and drove into his shoulder, pushing him back.

 

The Ryoka's goalie was standing up straight now, his stick hanging forgotten in his glove, his masked head darting back and forth as he tried to follow the barrage of words that were being fired off in a free-for-all of machine gun spray in front of him.

 

“What a load of crap!” Ichigo's body jerked forward, reclaiming his lost ground, the physical contact setting a five alarm blaze inside of him. “You couldn't find the net with a map and directions!” he yelled, his left arm swinging up to point towards the hapless goalie, before returning the favour and jabbing Grimmjow in the chest with his own gloved hand. “Quit blaming other people for your own shortcomings, you jackass!”

 

Ichigo glared up at the taller man, every muscle tensed and ready for a scrap. His whole body was just aching to throw a solid punch right between those hatefully blue eyes, but he didn't need to. Ichigo's words had the same effect, and they found their target.

 

_Quit blaming other people for your own shortcomings._

 

“THE FUCK YOU SAY TO ME, YOU LITTLE SHIT?” Grimmjow roared, every muscle coiled so tight it burned. He wouldn't lose it. He wouldn't give up his control so easily.

 

“I SAID, YOUR MOM SHOULDA SWALLOWED YOU!” Ichigo bellowed back.

 

It was probably one of the worst things he'd ever said to anyone in his entire life.

 

But Ichigo was well and truly derailed. And the thought that if his family could hear him now, they would probably disown him, didn't even enter his mind.

 

Grimmjow's jaw dropped open and hung suspended in the air for one long second as his mind completely and irreparably short circuited. He couldn't believe what Kurosaki Ichigo had just said to him. A man he fought to protect.

 

How he'd just talked about his ma like that.

 

How he'd basically just told Grimmjow he shouldn't exist.

 

Ichigo's heart was hammering out a war cry, and he braced himself as he watched Grimmjow's eyes go wild, the maddened look in them as revealing as a spotlight. Time slowed to a crawl, and it was with a strange sense of fascination and regret that he watched the emotional carnage play out across the other man's face. He couldn't possibly fully understand what was going on behind those eyes, but he knew one thing for damn sure.

 

Ichigo had just swanned dived across the line. And the sexta had just come unglued.

 

Then the moment was over, and so was Grimmjow's restraint.

 

Grimmjow's eyes lit up with rage, bursting into a blue inferno. Every angle of his face, from the sharply arrowed eyebrows, to the twin fish-hooked upper lip, was radiating pure malice. All at once, all of the anger that had compressed inside the bluenet exploded outward.

 

It stunned Ichigo for a split second. The rush of rage was like watching the universe being birthed, a formless mass of power ripping outward from a single point in space.

 

And every ounce of that fear inspiring attention was focused solely on Ichigo. It was absolutely captivating.

 

“THAT'S IT!” Grimmjow exploded. “DROP'EM, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!”

 

Grimmjow didn't realize how much he'd truly been longing to just pound Kurosaki into oblivion until this moment. It took every last scrap of mental power for him to not just lunge at the smaller man and beat his body into and unrecognizable mess of broken bones and spilled blood.

 

In fact, if you asked Grimmjow, he would insist that he was being quite polite about the whole thing. Grimmjow could have sucker-punched Ichigo with a quick cheap shot to the face. And that would have been it. Lights out.

 

But despite the orangette's completely jaundiced opinion of Grimmjow, he did in fact have a moral code. And even as he seethed at number fifteen through a blood red rage, if they _were_ going to fight, Grimmjow wanted to win it fair and square. With Ichigo, it mattered. He had to win it clean or there would be no point.

 

And he would. Oh, he would.

 

It would be no contest. He'd seen Ichigo fight, and he could certainly hold his own, but he was tangling with Grimmjow now. Ichigo was delusional if he thought he could win against the sexta. He was gonna bring the pain to Kurosaki, and then he was gonna make him eat it.

 

Both players' sticks clattered to the ice.

 

The world around them had all but disappeared. It was just the two of them.

 

The game. The arena. The crowd. All of it had faded to a distant whisper, driven by madness into the blurred edges of their periphery.

 

They shook off their gloves in one sharp motion as they lunged at one another, fists already curled and flying like bullets, each man seeking a way through the other's defences, straining to be the first to inflict damage, and hoping for blood.

 

In an instant, the announcers were out of their seats, along with every single fan and player in the entire building. The only man who didn't _seem_ affected was the Soul Reaper's coach, his expression composed and unreadable. The crowd barely noticed the goal that finally slipped through the Soul Reapers' defence just as whistles began to blow frantically in a shrill command to end the play.

 

The arena's JD wasted no time filling the huge space with the primal roar of the heavy, rolling drumbeat of Metallica's, Enter Sandman, skillfully adding to the feeling of burgeoning blood lust by jumping straight into the ominous drums that made way for the chilling chorus.

 

__**Say your prayers little one  
Don't forget my son to include everyone  
I tuck you in, warm within**

_**Keep you free from sin 'til the sandman he comes  
** _

The whole arena was in an uproar, their frenzied screams of excitement blending together with the thundering music to reach near deafening levels. They were fuelled by passion... and perhaps just a little bit of beer.

__**  
Sleep with one eye open  
Gripping your pillow tight  
  
Exit light  
Enter night  
Take my hand  
We're off to never never-land**

 

 

As if the two enraged players were following its lead, number six and number fifteen threw punch after devastating punch. The music seemed to conduct their movements. They grabbed and pulled at each others jerseys, blue and black material secure and twisted inside white knuckled fists, using the contact for leverage, keeping each other locked in battle.

 

Every punch was an insult, a retort, a statement.

 

_Challenge me, and I will knock you down._

 

Grimmjow reeled back, arm coiling then snapping forward, every jab seeking out the places where it would hurt the most. Ichigo's head snapped to the side, and he twisted away as he took a blow to the jaw, stars jumping in front of his vision. The next one caught him on the ear, and even while he heard as much as felt the dampened punch rattle through his skull, he was already swinging back with his own answering hay-maker.

 

While the unbelieving crowd inside the Sokyoku Hill arena looked on in thrilled amazement, the fans at home and in the bars watched the spectacle unfold with varied looks of disbelief and awe as the two announcers excitedly gave the play by play.

 

“ _Holy cow! In all my years, I've never seen anything like this. They're going at it!”_

 

“ _Whoa! You havin' fun yet?!”_

 

“ _Unbelievable! The mittens are off! And two players from the same team are fighting out their shift!”_

 

Grimmjow's fist collided with parts of Ichigo's body for what seemed like the hundredth time, and he cackled for the briefest moment before one of Ichigo's wiry little arms shot out and a fist slammed into his exposed forehead. Grimmjow returned the favour, even as blood leaked into his eye, finding Ichigo's temple with the hard edge of his large knuckles.

 

The best part was that Ichigo wasn't even defending himself. Neither of them were. They were both just swinging, leaving themselves open. Just giving it all up for the chance to land that punch, that one good pop to the head that would drop their opponent.

 

Ichigo reeled from another well placed fist. His cheek and temple were probably throbbing already, but he didn't stop coming. He was matching Grimmjow blow for blow. It all translated into his rage bent mind as something pleasurable, all sweaty skin and thrilling pain, the feel of his knuckles digging against bone and skin. He could taste Kurosaki in his mouth, the younger man's sweat mixed with his own blood where Ichigo's fist had grazed him, sliding against his split lip as Grimmjow intercepted his arm.

 

Even through their mutual haze of anger, Grimmjow could feel his dick getting hard. And if Ichigo was enjoying himself as much Grimmjow knew he was, Ichigo was every bit as excited as him. Grimmjow's breaths were lashed out through sharp, red and white teeth framed by a wide, angry snarl.

 

Almost a grin.

 

Every hit he landed was a little bit of Grimmjow's seed spilled across Ichigo's pristine skin. It didn't really do anything to release all that anger, but at least it came with a fun buzz.

 

“ _Nobody knows what sparked it, but it' looks like the notorious sexta, Jaegerjaquez, and newcomer, Kurosaki have found a reason to disagree!“_

 

“ _And what a fight! I mean they are really wailing on each other!”_

 

“ _Jaegerjaquez is a strong man. Kurosaki is a battler. We've seen that all season long.”_

 

“ _Now Jaegerjaquez is trying to yank Kurosaki's jersey off...”_

 

“ _Just like a kid on Christmas morning, he's tearing through Kurosaki's jersey like cheap wrapping paper!”_

 

“ _The linesmen are wondering if it's a good idea to jump in.”_

 

“ _I'd say no! The refs aren't even going to touch this one. They're just gonna let'em go.”_

 

“ _Well, what are you going to do? There has to be some extremely bad blood there for two teammates to start fighting in the middle... whoa!... Look at that left hook!_

 

“ _Ooh! That one stung!”_

 

“ _Kurosaki is really giving it to Jaegerjaquez. One, two, three times to the face!”_

 

“ _Well he has to be fast, doesn't he, if he wants to avoid that infamous devastating right uppercut of Jaegerja... oooh... he ducked when he should have weaved, and number fifteen goes down in a heap, all tangled up and taking number six with him. And the refs are all over that!”_

 

“ _There's blood on the ice tonight folks and it's not what you would expect. What a mess! What a fight! What a day in hockey!”_

 

“ _The fans are beside themselves!”_

 

“ _Well so am I, Kent. So am I!”_

 

“ _This is unheard of. I mean, two players from the same team fighting at training camp, sure.”_

 

“ _It's not uncommon for fights to break out during practice. When you spend so much time together, travelling, eating and sleeping together. Confrontations are the norm. But during a game?”_

 

“ _Well, I hope those two boys have gotten it out of their system because they are definitely out of this game.”_

 

“ _They may be down, but they're not out. They're still grappling on the ice beneath a dog pile of officials. It's taking all three referees to peel those two boys apart.”_

 

“ _Absolutely unbelievable. Now the officials are escorting both men separately off the ice.”_

 

“ _Seems to me like it's a bad idea to send them to the same locker room. I mean look at them. Covered in blood and they're still chirping at one another.”_

 

“ _Yup. Don't read their lips, kids.”_

 

“ _I think Jaegerjaquez just said 'I love you'. And Kurosaki just saluted.”_

 

“ _'You're number one', he said. Oh my. Neither of them appears to be out of gas. I'd bet my first born that if those officials weren't between them right now they'd just go right back at it.”_

 

“ _No doubt about it. Well, the Reaper's coach is going to have some words for those two after this game is over. That's for sure.”_

 

“ _Absolutely. I'd be afraid to be a fly on the wall for that one.”_

 

“ _I don't think you'd need to be a fly on the wall to hear that one!”_

 

“ _I think you're right!”_

 

“ _Well folks. Just ten minutes remaining in the third. Five - two... no... pardon... six - two for the Ryokas.. And if you're just tuning in, you will definitely not want to miss the post game wrap up.”_

 

“ _No worries if you do though. This is going to make every highlight reel for about a decade.”_

 

“ _Just in time for the holidays. Those are two boys who are definitely getting coal in their stockings this year!”_

 

**X X X**

 

Three security guards filled the space between the two bloodied players.

 

They stood at opposite ends of the locker room as they stripped off the remnants of their equipment quickly and efficiently. It took less time than usual to peel out of their uniforms since both men had managed to help each other out of a good portion of it already during their on-ice scuffle. In fact, by the time they were done, they had both left the ice shirtless, much to the appreciation of the ladies in their audience, and perhaps some of the males as well. Their sought after physiques were covered only in a sheen of sweat, blood splatter and smears, and a handful of bruises.

 

Both players kept their eyes fixed on the task at hand, and their backs stayed turned to one another. Just one look would be enough to set them off again, and they both knew it. And enough damage had already been done for one night.

 

By the time they'd exposed their damaged bodies to the air and changed into their street clothes, their tempers had cooled just enough for reason and logic to begin to rear its head. And as reality started to sink back in, to be honest, both men were beginning to wonder what the hell had actually happened.

 

Grimmjow sent a surreptitious glance towards his rival. Ichigo looked like he'd been through a rusty propeller. The throbbing sting from the cut on the bridge of his nose told Grimmjow he probably didn't look much better.

 

In less than twenty minutes, they were both leaning silently against their respective lockers, arms crossed, each man glaring at the far wall.

 

They hadn't showered. There was no way _that one_ was going to fly. Ichigo was by far the most presentable of the two. He had managed to use the sink to rinse away the blood on his face, but Grimmjow had just left it there. He always wore his battle scars without remorse. Ichigo had a feeling it served as more of a reminder than anything; that he owed someone something. Ichigo slid a sidelong look at the blue-haired player. He looked like shit. Had Ichigo really done all that?

 

Both men glanced up when the team began pouring into the locker room. Except for the clunking of skates and sticks, and the rustling of heavy gear, the silence was deafening.

 

“Way to go, ass holes.” The team's red-haired goalie spoke for the whole team as soon as he entered the room. Grimmjow sneered and huffed quietly, while Ichigo cringed internally. If the man who had let in five relatively easy shots felt mighty enough to put them down, then they really were no better than the nasty hairy shit that got stuck in the drain.

 

Moments later, the coach entered the locker room like a tropical storm, and the other players quickly shuffled out of the way, knowing that if they didn't, he would have simply cut a swath through them.

 

“Kurosaki! Jaegerjaquez! Get your GOD DAMN asses on this bench!”

 

Ichigo was mortified. Not only were they going to be read the riot act, but it was going to be in front of the entire club. Ichigo grimaced and did his best not to actually scurry to the bench. He'd never seen the coach, (or anyone outside of Grimmjow), this angry in his entire life. The man's face was as red as a tomato, and the large veins of his neck were sticking out and pulsing in a most unhealthy manner.

 

The bench vibrated as Grimmjow sauntered over then dropped himself heavily right next to Ichigo, forearms resting across his legs as he hunched forward, assuming the position and preparing to be chewed out but good.

 

Neither man was disappointed.

 

“ARE YOU TWO **INSANE**?! What in the fucking hell was **THAT**?! I aught' to kick both your asses off my TEAM for that stupid STUNT!”

 

“Sorry... I...” Ichigo squirmed like a hooked worm as he glanced up at the extremely distraught man who was about five... four... three... seconds away from having a stress induced coronary, if the bulging veins in his bright red neck were any indication. Ichigo didn't get to finish his apology as the enraged man instantly began shouting like a bullhorn over his muted reply.

 

“DON'T YOU **'** _ **SORRY**_ **'** ME, KUROSAKI! Do you have any IDEA what kind of **DAMAGE** you two just caused to the reputation of this team?! To **MY** REPUTATION?!”

 

The distraught coach threw his arms in the air as if he was about to pull God himself down off his perch, and began pacing back and forth as he ran one large, gnarled hand through what was left of his formerly lustrous, grey mottled hair. Then he rounded on the two delinquent Reapers and bellowed at them from a mere foot away, flecks of spittle flying through the air and littering their relatively composed faces.

 

“We're going to be the laughing stock of hockey because of you two **IDIOTS**!” he shrieked.

 

His eyes were comically wide in his head, and for his own part, Ichigo had to force down a completely inappropriate surge of laughter.

 

He was in shit. This was _not_ funny.

 

“What the hell is WRONG with you two?!” The man practically screamed his question.

 

“Sorry,” Ichigo repeated softly. He knew it was pointless to apologize but he couldn't help himself. It just seemed natural to fill in the blank at this point.

 

“Sorry,” Grimmjow muttered, shadowed blue eyes briefly tearing from the floor to chance a look at their coach, the subdued bluenet saying the word like he was choking on a chicken bone.

 

“Sorry,” the coach repeated bitterly. His voice had dropped to something almost devoid of emotion.“Well, that's just great. Thanks for that.”

 

Nobody dared move in the locker room as a few tense seconds of silence passed while the coach regarded his two unruly players as if he were contemplating the shit stuck to the bottom of his shoes. Ichigo jumped in his seat as the man gave a choleric snort and continued, voice teaming with anger once again.

 

“ **YOU THINK** _ **SORRY**_ **COVERS THIS?”**

 

Grimmjow shrugged, but didn't say anything else. He didn't dare. He knew better. It didn't matter what either of them said. It would only add more fuel to their coach’s already raging fire. All they could do was wait out the tirade and hope they could get out of the building without being crushed under the avalanche of reporters that were no doubt buzzing outside the locker rooms walls and lurking at every exit by now.

 

And the man was right. Now that his temper had calmed somewhat, and Grimmjow's brain cells were functioning in something vaguely resembling that of a human's again, it was embarrassing. Humiliating. Even for Grimmjow who rarely felt embarrassed about anything.

 

It wasn't the fact that he had fought his own team mate that irked him. It was how easily he had lost his composure and become enraged to the point of near madness. One minute of locking horns with the orangette, and he'd bridged the gap between anger and blind insanity. Grimmjow had always maintained a degree of control. If he was angry it was because he damn well wanted to be. What the hell was it about Kurosaki that made him lose his shit so profoundly?

 

Fights among players were actually more common than most of the public would realize. But they usually happened during practice and at training camps, where players would sometimes but heads and argue. Confrontations were normal, but on rare occasions the heated words escalated into brief physical altercations as the players struggled to adjust their playing styles and find a compromise so that the team could work together as a unit.

 

Fights happened. But never during a game. They were supposed to be professionals.

 

“You know what.” The sound of air being compressed rapidly through a tight, obstructed passage filled the room as the coach hauled in a breath through his nose, then expelled it.

 

“You're both suspended. I don't wanna see either of your faces here for the next two games. Not even practice.” The man leaned forward, wagging his crooked finger in front of matted blue and spiky orange locks.

 

“If either one of you sets foot near this arena before Christmas, I will personally have you arrested.”

 

 _Suspended._ Grimmjow's eyebrows jumped in response while his breath hitched in his throat. Almost instantly his head snapped to the side and he threw a baleful eye towards his orange-haired team mate

 

 _And arrest_ _ed?_ Like he'd never hear _that_ before. But coming from his own coach?

 

This was all Kurosaki's fault.

 

Ichigo's mouth fell open. Suspended? Him? His sterling reputation was being dragged down inch by inch by the blue Hessian. Okay, maybe sterling was a bit far fetched, but still. He met the dirty, cobalt glare with a slow, fiery burn of his own. Grimmjow was going to pay dearly.

 

He was already imaging the things he was going to do to Grimmjow, within the confines of the law of course, but Ichigo's thoughts were cut short. The coach wasn't done yet.

 

“Oh, do I have your attention?” he puffed.

 

At the coach's stiff question, both player's looked away. They broke eye contact, partly in disgust, but also because if they didn't snap-to, the very angry man might start yelling again. And neither one wanted their mutual scolding to be extended any longer than it had to be.

 

“Good.” The coach leaned in a little bit closer, and both men stiffened. ”Not one foot before Christmas. And when you return, you'd better behave like you are the _best_ of the _best_ of friends.”

 

The coach's bloodshot eyes darted between the two men again. His expression was dark, almost manic, and it gave Ichigo the willies. Even Grimmjow was eyeing him up and developing a subtle lean.

 

“Ichigo, if Grimmjow asks you to help him wipe his ass, you will do it and say 'Thank you, Grimmjow'!” He grinned, unamused but shark-like, eyes flashing with malevolence. “And Grimmjow, if Ichigo asks you to hold his dick while he pisses, you will do it with.. a... smile. Is. That. Clear?”

 

The hum of quiet amusement being poorly held at bay behind arms and hands filled the locker room, and two pairs of stunned eyes blinked back at the coach. The man wasn't kidding. He meant every word.

 


	13. Chapter 13

You would think that an outburst of such epic proportions would have been enough to jolt the two Soul Reaper's out of their feud and back into sanity.

 

Yes, you would think that.

 

And you would be wrong.

 

Two days past Christmas, the two rival teammates returned from their suspensions with equal amounts of hesitation and ill will.

 

Getting yelled at may have made the coach feel better, but it did little to erase months of built up frustration. Not that anyone in the know truly expected the two rival teammates to suddenly get along just because they'd had a scrap. The cork may have finally blown, but it was a fight neither man had won. The brutal blows and cutting insults had only served to briefly blow off some steam. And while their sensational fight had released a bit of pressure, the coach's harsh words afterwards had not been so effective as to permanently stifle the flames of their competition. There were just some problems that couldn't be fixed by yelling.

 

Now back in the arena, Ichigo and Grimmjow were as tense as ever around each other. But both men were determined not to be the one who screwed up next.

 

Ichigo took a calming breath before he entered the stadium for the first time in over a week. He greeted his teammates with as much normalcy as he could manage, and his teammates, for their part, were welcoming. Renji was nice enough to toss his crotch soaked towel in his face, and Shinji had taped to his 'locker' a picture of a very unattractive older woman having relations with a very eager mule. Ichigo couldn't help but smile a little as Shinji beamed wickedly at him from across the room. Nothing was really said, but that was enough. It was a bit of a relief for him, the guys welcoming him back so warmly after.... the incident. Ichigo and Grimmjow had both had to deal with the press to some degree. And their teammates would have received a lot of unwanted attention from the press as well, reporters clamouring for their thoughts on the event and the state of the team and all.

 

Ichigo had wanted to crawl away and hide inside his own fetid hockey bag while he faced the excited reporters. And seeing himself stuttering, muttering and shrugging on the eleven o’clock news had been almost as much of a treat. Seeing himself in that situation was rough, yes, but when the scene skipped to the interview with the sexta, Ichigo felt his spine straighten and he'd jacked up the volume to see what the other man had said about him, well, about their fight. He'd felt mildly disappointed when Grimmjow had stuck to the script, half expecting the bluenet to go on a tirade about him. Ichigo had been pissed off, agitated, and polite but short with his words. Grimmjow seemed to have handled himself only slightly better, though his oceanic trench of a scowl could have cracked a camera lens.

 

Ichigo was a mess in front of the camera and a mess on the ice. But what a fight it had been. Ichigo's lack of control during that few minutes had done more to the people around him than he had been capable of grasping in the heat of the moment. Grimmjow had been the only one he'd seen. The only thing in the world. But outside of Grimmjow, the world was still waiting. And boy, did it have something to say.

 

Christmas for Ichigo hadn't been a disaster or anything, but it hadn't gone quite as well as he'd hoped.

 

Save for the elephant in the room, their Christmas morning ritual was unaffected. He'd shown up at his father's house early enough to greet his sisters with Christmas hugs and kisses as they trundled downstairs in their sweats. It was tradition. No one got properly dressed before gifts were opened. No longer living at home, Ichigo was dressed, of course. He had thrown on a white, knit turtleneck and was looking a sight healthier than the day before now that most of his shiner had faded, with the help of some concealer, a secret he would have denied to his dying breath had anyone noticed.

 

Both Yuzu and Karin had unwrapped their gifts from Ichigo with bright smiles that turned to stunned tears when they'd realized that their entire university tuitions were being paid for. It had been perfect, for a moment. But Ichigo had felt his smile pull down and his body sink deeper into the living room recliner when both of the girls had tried to refuse his generosity.

 

“Ichigo. We can't take this!” Yuzu had breathed, petite mouth drawn into an oh. “It's too much!”  
  


“Yeah.” Karin had added, thrusting the cheque back towards her brother with a stern look in her dark eyes. “You know we've both been working. Do you think we can't take care of ourselves?”

 

And an argument had ensued. The sound of a third gift being ripped open had barely registered with the duelling siblings. And then Isshin, as predicted, had pitched a fit, declaring Ichigo officially the man of the house, and himself just a housekeeper.

 

“A housekeeper?” Ichigo had turned and bellowed, practically jumping out of his chair. “You don't even cook, old man! Yuzu does all the cooking!”

 

Isshin had continued to bawl and feign disability, sliding from the couch into a boneless heap onto the living room floor. Until Ichigo had brained him. With his father silently seeing stars on the family room's tan carpet, the family feud had finally died down when Ichigo had straightened up and gathered himself and spoke in earnest.  
  
“After all the support you guys have given me, you won't even let me give it back? “ Ichigo had crossed his arms and scowled down at the trio. “This is yours too, you know.”

 

He cut off the chorus of “Ichigo” before his family could get any further.

 

“I'm getting paid a lot for doing something I love. What's the point if I can't share it with the people who are important to me?”

 

A moment of silence followed. Then Yuzu had simply thrown herself at her older brother, wrapping her arms like a trap around his slender waist, while Karin had given him a look that he knew meant she was only accepting it because of his intentions. He smiled back at her. He loved his little sisters, and he would always help them any way he could.

 

It was, by far, a normal Christmas morning at the Kurosaki household. But his family was his family, and they didn't waste much time getting to the heart of the matter. That matter being Ichigo behaving like a crazed street thug in the middle of a hockey game. At least those were the words Karin had used to describe what she'd seen while she'd watched the game with her friends.

 

There had never been a face in the world that could shame Ichigo like the expressions his little sisters had for him that Christmas morning. And when Yuzu tried to explain herself, face crestfallen, Karin had nudged up to her, wrapping her arm around her shoulders to offer he support. Dammit. The girls had definitely practiced this routine. And Ichigo had still fallen for it.

 

“I've never seen you act like that before,” Yuzu had said. “Isn't he supposed to be your friend?” Karin had nodded in agreement. Ichigo frowned.

 

“Teammates aren't always friends,” was all he could say right then. Ichigo had a world of words to throw at them about that, but Yuzu was faster on the draw.

 

“It's just... it hurt to see, Ichi. You used to love hockey.”

 

“I still love hockey, Yuzu,” he argued, though he hardly felt it. “Things are different in this league. There's a lot more pressure...” Ichigo faded into a sigh. Was he making excuses? “Look. I'm not proud of it, okay? That guy....” Ichigo started to look for ways to sum up their problem quickly so he could just not have this conversation any longer,

 

“The sexta?” Yuzu asked.

 

“Yeah. The sexta.” Ichigo mumbled. “Grimmjow is just... a really hard guy to work with.”

 

“How is he hard?” Yuzu asked, face sweet with innocence. Ichigo felt his own cheeks begin to burn in response. He blinked a couple of times before he started to respond.

 

“He's... uhm....” Ichigo felt flushed, his body suddenly falling into the same rhythms it did when he was actually facing the Sexta. His blood was rushing warm beneath his skin and all he was trying to do was talk about the guy. He fought for words that wouldn't come while his sister waited with patient curiosity. What was he even trying to say now? A jumble of thoughts began to race through his mind, each one a description of some aspect about Grimmjow... most of them physical. The white turtleneck, he decided, was a terrible idea. His father must have cranked the heat. It was far too warm in the house for a sweater.

 

Thankfully, Karin cut in.

 

“It doesn't matter, Ichi, what he is.” She folded her arms and faced him. “You're our big brother. And we'll always be proud of you... but that's not what our brother would do.”

 

Ichigo had winced at that, the statement pulling him back to solid ground. The girls weren't going to cut him a break and there was no way he was going to sit there and explain it all to them. They didn't understand what it was like to be a rough and tumble guy, playing for big money in the NHL, but they still managed to land a solid blow to Ichigo's gut.

 

And it was seeing far too many of those lately.

 

His father had already gotten to him the night before, when the girls were out. Ichigo had walked into his childhood home and found Isshin leaning back in his seat in the kitchen, the newspaper in his hand propped open against the edge of the table. He'd greeted Ichigo and flashed him a healthy grin, but sobered the moment he took in his appearance. He didn't look very surprised, though. Nor did Ichigo expect that he should. His father watched every game Ichigo played, even if it meant recording it when he was on shift at the clinic.

 

Isshin's voice was stern, but taunting. He knew exactly what had happened and wasn't the least surprised to see Ichigo's faded shiner on Christmas eve.

 

“Ichigo,” he'd said. “Son, you look like you lost a fight.”

 

Ichigo couldn't help himself as he frowned at his father. But he'd been avoiding this since the game a week ago. He'd ignored a few calls from the media, looking to squeeze more drama from his embarrassing meltdown, and he had only returned his family's messages with short, non-descript texts. All in all, Ichigo had laid rather low, keeping to his apartment except to run errands or to keep up his training.

 

“I didn't lose.”

 

Isshin's calm expression hardly wavered, and Ichigo sighed internally. He didn't know why he'd said that, because it really didn't matter.

 

“Things just got a little crazy. Can we just forget it? The media is already having a field day.”

 

Isshin nodded to him and Ichigo took a seat across from his father and his five-day-old newspaper.

 

“Oh yes,” Isshin said a little too brightly. “I've seen.” He rattled the paper with flare and squinted hard at it before reading it aloud for Ichigo's benefit.

 

“' _They're passionate guys, that are... very, very frustrated..._ ' the article says.”

 

“Dad...”

 

“' _Their teammates stood by and let them iron out their differences_...' the article says.” Isshin's dark gaze travelled up from the paper now laying on the table, and settled on Ichigo.

 

“It was just a fight...”

 

“That's not what I would call it, Ichigo. What was all that about?”

 

Ichigo crossed his arms, the small creases between his own eyes turning to deep ravines.

 

“He started it,” Ichigo said stubbornly.

 

“Ichigo,” Isshin warned. The orangette let his gaze lower to the table, hoping his father would drop it. The whistle of steam beckoned from across the kitchen, starting soft but growing more intense. But when Isshin just continued to stare at him, Ichigo pushed himself up from his seat, chair legs scraping across the floor as he stood.

 

“I can't stay. I'll see you tomorrow.” Ichigo hadn't made it two steps before his father's voice broke his stride.

 

“Ichigo.”

 

Isshin's heavy baritone came with the promise of trouble if Ichigo didn't stop. He turned back to face his father, petulant frown creasing his eyes, his inner five year old warring with the man he now was.

  
“Don't let things get out of hand. You're sisters didn't raise you to behave that way.” Isshin's dark eyes were serious, despite his oddly worded statement. “And I expect more from you.”

 

Ichigo's shoulders dropped a fraction as he sighed and avoided the steely gaze of his father.

 

“I know.” He grabbed his jacket from the hook on the kitchen wall as he walked towards the door.

 

“Ichigo.”

 

He stopped again, hands still on the lapels of the jacket he'd half shrugged into. He looked back to find that Isshin was once again leaning in his chair, paper stretched open, hiding most of the bottom half of his face. He wasn't even looking at Ichigo, but his eyes had fallen back to their usual relaxed pose.

 

“The girl's will be up at eight, and Yuzu's making pancakes. Don't be late.”

 

**X X X**

 

Grimmjow's holidays had been less than special. To start with, getting away from the press had proved impossible, and he'd been forced to give them a statement just so he could leave the building. He couldn't even remember what he'd said, probably because it was what he'd been told to say by the coach. He wanted Grimmjow to play down the incident, pretend everything was fine. And the blood on his face; the coach had warned him to wash that off too. It would just give the reporters more sensationalistic snapshots for the papers.

 

None of the questions had really come as a surprise to the blue-haired enforcer. They were as standard as one would expect given the situation, until the end.

 

“Grimmjow. How do you feel about what happened tonight between you and Kurosaki Ichigo?”

 

Grimmjow squinted out into the shadowed faces of sports writers and journalists who'd waited and gathered to talk to the some of the Reapers in the locker room. The set of lights from some poorly adjusted camera was burning afterimages into his eyes, the glare leaving his pupils black pinpoints in a sea of powder blue.

 

“Turn that shit off. Yer blinding me,” he snapped in one direction before responding to the journalist who'd asked the question. The light flickered off. “We had a disagreement that spilled into the game. That's all there is to it.”

 

“What about the fight being a contributing factor towards the loss of the game?”

 

“It was unprofessional, and it ain't gonna happen again.” _So get the fuck outta my face,_ he'd added in his head.

 

Grimmjow had opted to take his punishment first so he could get out of this mess and back to the peace of his apartment. Kurosaki had long since pushed out into the hallway where more reporters were lurking. The little sneak was just trying to bolt, but Grimmjow knew he couldn't have made a clean getaway. Which was good. If Grimmjow was stuck doing this shit, Kurosaki should suffer too.

 

“Word is you and Kurosaki can't stand each other.”

 

Grimmjow had felt his lip pull into a derisive sneer. _What gave it away?_ He let his eyes wander over the room as he answered the reporter.

 

“We clash from time to time. It's gonna happen.”

 

“So, what sparked the fight?”

 

 _Kurosaki's a jackass._ Grimmjow glared down at the reporter, jaw muscles tightening.

 

“He said spoon. I said fork.” he deadpanned. The small mob of reporters chuckled. It wasn't the answer they wanted, but it still sounded good for a story. Another voice called out, and Grimmjow turned in time to get face full of flash bulb. He blinked hard and suppressed a growl.

 

“We've heard your coach has suspended you both for two games. Will he also be splitting your line up when you return?”

 

Grimmjow frowned. He hadn't even thought about that. And he suddenly didn't know _what_ he thought about that.

 

“You'll have to ask him,” he replied, shrugging as he raised his chin and glanced over top the heads of the group, trying to scope out the easiest path towards the door. It was far too crowded in here. The air was getting hot. He could smell various aftershaves, hair products, and the scent of freshly polished leather shoes. And there wasn't anything good about any of it. In fact, he would rather take the strained silence that had settled over the room less than an hour ago. Maybe he really was messed up, because compared to this he'd actually found it quite... comfortable.

 

“So, what are you going to do with all this time off? Do you think you and Ichigo will let bygones be bygones and share a Christmas drink?”

 

Grimmjow's eyes flashed, and he choked back a snarl that threatened to roll up his throat. Now that was a damn stupid question. Was the guy looking for a fight? Nothing stirred Grimmjow's temper quite like the thought of being taunted and mocked. And there was no doubt that the reporter was goading him for a reaction. Grimmjow's entire demeanour stiffened, and the jostling group of men and women fell silent. At the same time, they seemed to lean forward as one.

 

“No comment.” he growled. With that, Grimmjow shrugged past the large crowd of reporters, who instantly burst into a chorus of chatter. Once through, he bent low and swiped his heavy hockey bag from the floor as if it weighed nothing and made a beeline for the door..

 

That was all they were getting from him. They had their soundbite from the sexta, and they could stick it up their asses if that's what they wanted to do with it. Besides, he was sure Ichigo would have enough derogatory things to say about him to keep the press happy when they found him as well. The thought left Grimmjow in a foul mood for the entire ride home.

 

After that, Grimmjow had stayed out of the social scene as much as possible. He'd spent the greater part of his time keeping himself busy and healthy by training at the gym; doing cardio and strength training while plugged into headphones to drown out the Christmas cacophony that seemed to be gumming up the airwaves as well as everybody's lips.

 

Beyond that, Grimmjow kept a low profile, opting to stay in his apartment and read or disappear into an action thriller. In a week the festive season would be another bitter memory, and he'd be back on the ice, doing what he was born to do.

 

Hurt.

 

That was the plan. But just because Grimmjow didn't want to see the world, didn't mean the world had entirely forgotten about him. After scrolling through the short list of messages on his private number, he'd turned down a few invites for parties and dinners.

 

Except the ones from his mother.

 

As always, she'd prepared a proper Christmas dinner; roast turkey with home-made stuffing and all the fixings. And being the good son that he was, Grimmjow had picked up some last minute items for his ma, helped her set their table for two, then dug in with gusto.

 

Normally, he always told his ma about his day, partly because it was good to talk to someone he trusted, but also because it made the woman smile.

 

And he loved it when she smiled.

 

But this time, when she casually asked him to pass the gravy and tell her why he'd fought his own teammate, Grimmjow had simply sat and stared at the gravy boat in his hand before setting it down gently in front of her in silence. What could he say? He didn't have any answers for her. Other than, he was frustrated. But she'd heard that before.

 

“My Grimmjow, you know how much it hurts me to see you so upset.”

 

“It's nothin' ma.”

 

“Come. Tell me what is wrong. Why is it, you are having violent relations with your teammate?”

 

Grimmjow choked so hard on the piece of turkey he'd been chewing that he had to spit it out into his napkin to get his breath.  
  
“That's **NOT** how you say it!” he blustered. Bright blue eyes landed on his mother as he reached for his glass of white wine and cleared his throat. He swallowed down a mouthful of the dry liquid and then tried to explain himself. “We got into a scrap. That's what happened.”

 

“Well, what did I say?” his mother squinted at him in confusion.

 

“N-never mind. Just don't say that again, ok?” Grimmjow's cheeks had a tinge to them that didn't come from the wine. He had no problem making obscene jokes around the guys and talking dirty to the ladies, but where his ma was concerned, well, the woman was a saint. Hearing her talk about things like that was just plain wrong.

 

The older woman shrugged and gave a small frown of agreement before she resumed her probe of her turkey and her son's antics.

 

“Well, why did you scrap then?”

 

“Because he's an asshole,” Grimmjow snapped without thinking. It was just a reflex where Kurosaki was concerned.

 

“Grimmjow!” Grimmjow jumped at the pain that flared across his knuckles as his ma cracked him across the back of his hand with the blunt side of her knife. “You know there is no room for that in my house.”

 

“Ma! That hurt!” Grimmjow whined, shaking his hand and scowling at his ma. Saint, he'd said?

 

“Oph. You are being a baby now. No more of this. If you don't want to tell me, then don't. I will listen when you are ready to be grown up.”

 

Grimmjow? The sexta? Not grown up? Now he was getting shit from his ma, and it was all because of Kurosaki. He had half a mind to tell her just what it was that the orangette had said about her, about him.

 

“He said that... “

 

Grimmjow took in the weathered, but angelic expression on his mother's face. No. On second thought...

 

“He pushed my buttons is all,” he mumbled.

 

“He must have pushed pretty hard, Grimmjow.”

 

“Look ma, I just got outta control for a moment. But it's fine. We ain't gonna have any more problems like that.” Grimmjow was pretty sure he was lying to himself and his mother in the same breath. He wanted to go another round with Kurosaki almost as much as he never wanted to lay eyes on him again. There was no denying it though. That fight had been exhilarating. Beyond the scraps he got into on a regular basis.

 

“Ok, then. If you say it is so, then I will trust you.”

 

Grimmjow's mother smiled at him and refilled her plate with seconds of everything. For an older woman, she had one hell of an appetite. Grimmjow reached for the serving spoon and ladled a mountain of turkey onto his plate as well. He looked over the nest of food on his plate, then glanced up at his mother with a slight frown.

 

“Please, pass the stuffing.”

 


	14. Chapter 14

Grimmjow heard him coming before he saw him.

 

The Reaper's enforcer padded down the hallway, the rubber treads of his winter boots packed with snow that was just beginning to melt. The blue-haired hockey player scowled impassively at everything as he squelched his way across the freshly polished cement floors, nodding at one of the security guards who greeted him by name, but only because it was the social protocol. As soon as he passed the guard, he forgot about him.

 

Despite the fact that the arena was still quiet, Grimmjow's head seemed intent on cluttering itself up with hoo-ha. And what a racquet it was making. It was hours before the game yet, security and staff busy with their jobs, preparing for the onslaught of bodies soon to cut a boisterous swath through the arena doors like a hoard of hungry locusts. Grimmjow didn't know exactly how things were going to go tonight. But it wasn't the game that was troubling him as he marched through the lobby and entered the halls, as much as it was one of the players.

 

He had expressly promised his ma that he wouldn't let himself be sucked into another childish squabble with his teammate... her words, not his. But he honestly didn't see how that was going to happen. He still had so much to say to Kurosaki... with his fists, with his body. He ached inside. The feeling had only grown since their spat, something empty and cold lusting for a sense of dominance in their worsening feud in a strange exciting way that only anger and madness together can breed. He yearned to get Ichigo alone again, not for the peace and strange discomfort they'd last had alone together, and not to spew venomous words at each other, but to pin him to the wall, to still him, to hold him there and make him understand Grimmjow's.....

 

The heavy footfalls of his team mate reached his ears, even over the din he was making inside his head and in the corridor. The bluenet blinked, and the walls of the hallway reappeared in front of him like a ship breaking through a wall of thick, grey mist. When Grimmjow turned around to see who it was coming up behind him, he was met with a familiar face.

 

The bluenet was a little bit later than usual for his first game back, and Kensei was just finishing his final lap around the building before getting suited up.

 

“You missed a good party, Grimmjow.” Kensei's greeting was a little choppy as he bobbed down the hall towards the bluenet who was still wrapped in the scent of fresh winter air, a touch of dampness dragging down his barely styled blue locks. A similar sparse dusting of pellety snow sat on his jacket shoulders, still white, but melting now in the warmer air of the arena hallways. Grimmjow didn't bother to brush it off.

 

“Yeah?” Grimmjow greeted his team captain with the barest of smiles as the white-haired forward jogged towards him. He was wary of Kensei right now. He was fairly certain he wasn't referring to the team's traditional warm up at the cross roads. He'd definitely missed that party. But Kensei was probably referring to the calls Grimmjow had brushed off during his self exile over the holidays. Grimmjow hadn't answered his friend's call over Christmas. Instead, he'd sent only a text reply to the invite he'd received to one of Kensei's “soirees”.

 

“Yeah,” Kensei replied as he caught up to the blue-haired enforcer, rubber soles squeaking erratically as he avoided a potential wipe-out in one of Grimmjow's puddles. He ran his eyes over the bluenet quickly, taking in his slightly haggard appearance. He looked tired when he should look rested. He glanced up at the fantastic display of blue bedhead and frowned. The man hadn't even paid attention to his hair tonight, a sure sign of his slipping mental state.

 

“What'd you do that was so important you had to miss my wife's Christmas chilli-cheese meatballs?” he chided.

 

Grimmjow continued to walk as he regarded the man to his left with veiled curiosity, ignoring the sticky wet strands of blue hair that were falling against his forehead in increasing numbers with each passing step. Kensei seemed to be in a jovial mood, but the bluenet didn't buy it.

 

Grimmjow didn't reply, but he raised an eyebrow slightly. Those were bloody good meatballs. If he hadn't eaten already, his stomach would be growling.

 

“And... “ Kensei continued. “We had the new hot tub installed. Bigger.. hotter.. with more bubbles.” Kensei cheshire-grinned at him while he pressed his index finger to his wrist to check his heart-rate. “And once the party really wound up, clothing was not an option.”

 

Grimmjow felt a shallow but sharkish grin pull at his mouth before it vanished again.

 

“Hn. Sarah married you on purpose right? She didn't get ya confused with some other guy?”

 

“Nope.” Kensei smiled, chin rising with pride. “Took me as I am. And I'll never giver up. Besides, she was checking out the guests as much as I was.”

 

“Atta girl.” Grimmjow's smile broadened then faded.

 

He kind of wish he'd answered that call, now. But he hadn't. He had told himself that he preferred to lick his wounds in private. But it was cowardly in a way, because he knew Kensei would corner him sooner or later. And he knew that dealing with things in his own special way was getting them nowhere. He also knew Kensei to be the most understanding person he could think of, at least when it came to him. Kensei seemed to know when to leave things alone, and unlike others, he was consistently pleasant to Grimmjow, treating him with tempered respect, and giving him room to breathe when he needed it

 

But Grimmjow could feel it coming. The talk. Kensei was pretty much done with Grimmjow's little feud with his orange-haired counterpart, and he knew it.

 

“So?” Kensei began.

 

“What?” Grimmjow mumbled as they walked side by side down the hall, his laden sports bag jarring the thick muscles in his arm with each step.

 

“How was your Christmas?”

 

Grimmjow took several strides before answering in a colorless voice.

 

“Was alright.”

 

“Good. And you had some time to yourself.”

 

Kensei's statement came with warning bells, and Grimmjow felt his neck muscles go as tense as the ones in his arm.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Great. So... are you going to sit down and talk things out with Kurosaki?”

 

Grimmjow huffed a perturbed sigh as they traversed the long hallway, irritation making his steps quick and heavy. Kensei had cut right to the chase. And here they were. No avoiding it now. But that didn't mean Grimmjow wasn't up for trying.

 

When the bluenet didn't reply with more than a wordless grunt, Kensei turned to an easier solution, offering to aid the two males in their awkward dance.

 

“If you have trouble talking to him, I can always...”

 

“Che.” The harsh sound was loud enough to cut Kensei off and was a sight more resentful this time.

 

In response to Grimmjow's cool attitude, Kensei's demeanour and tenor also took a turn, sliding quickly from relaxed and jovial to harsh and assertive.

 

“I don't know what's going on between you two, but it has to stop.”

 

Grimmjow kept walking, eyes fixed on the path ahead.

 

“Leave it alone, Kensei,” he cautioned. He wasn't really angry yet. Just tired. With the mood he was in right now, returning to the game post-dramatics and unable to remember the last goal he'd scored, the entire subject just left him feeling out of place and in the way.

 

“Right,” Kensei drawled, the word dragging with sarcasm. “Because leaving things alone has worked out so well for you.” Kensei paid no attention to the curt grunt he received, and when Grimmjow turned his head and his eyes landed on him in anger, he met the bluenet's glare head-on.

 

But a glare was not an answer. And after a moment's consideration, Kensei decided to press the issue. Kensei couldn't believe how Grimmjow couldn't seem to be reasonable at all when it came to Ichigo. He hated to say it, but whenever the two of them interacted, Grimmjow was a real tool. It was a risk to provoke the bluenet, but if anyone could get away with it, it would be Kensei.

 

“What would _he_ think?” he asked, watching the bluenet close.

 

Grimmjow stopped mid stride, the catch in his throat as loud as a slapshot in the empty stretch of hallway. The muscles in his neck and jaw went rigid, the only part of the enforcer's body Kensei could see beyond the wrinkled leather winter jacket, black gloves, and midnight blue track pants.

 

Kensei had never been afraid of Grimmjow. Aware of what he could do, yes. But if push ever came to shove, he could equal the bluenet if he needed to. Grimmjow may be strong and aggressive, but he was still young and emotional, and more often than not at the mercy of his own anger. Whether the enforcer thought so or not, it was a fact. Even more so lately.

 

”You should walk away from me.”

 

Grimmjow's left cheek twitched slightly, creasing his eye and pulling at his lip. The creak of leather being stretched out brought Kensei's attention down onto tightened fists as the bluenet turned his cold gaze onto the empty space down the hall, voice brittle.

 

“Right now.”

 

That was all the warning Kensei needed. He sighed quietly, nodded, and moved on ahead of Grimmjow.

 

What he'd said, he'd said to get his point across. He knew his words carried with them the sting of betrayal. It had hurt the blue-haired man deeply, but it needed to be done. Grimmjow needed to start thinking about what he was doing out there. He was going to self destruct if he kept on going the way he was.

 

It was amazing how much a man who seemed to let everything out was actually holding in.

 

**X X X**

 

“Alright boys. Saddle up! It's gonna be a rough ride!”

 

Ichigo finished stripping off his shirt and smirked at Shinji, who was making a crude show of himself in little more than his athletic cup. If it weren't for the fact that Shinji's other career was chasing women, he wouldn't have put it past him to be playing for the other team.

 

“Shit, Shinji!” Renji Abarai bawled from across the room. “Would you quit with the cowboy talk? It makes ya sound gay.”

 

“Only for you, baby!” Shinji gave a suggestive hip thrust in Renji's direction, then looked to Ichigo to back him up. Ichigo balled up his shirt and dropped it on the bench.

 

“If I were Renji, I wouldn't give you a dime,” he muttered.

 

At the other end of the room, the tattooed red-head shook his head. Usually _he_ was the vulgar one, but he couldn't keep up with Shinji when he was in a playful mood like this.

 

“Yeah?” Renji shot back. “Better tell them Hollow's that yer taken, then, cause I saw a few a'them checking out yer ass last time.”

 

“Yeah?” Shijnji echoed. “Well it's a good thing they like it, 'cause it's all they're gonna be seeing tonight.”

 

“You better hope so, Hirako,” a new voice chimed in. “The last thing you want is Yammy Llargo on top of you.”

 

Ichigo shuddered at the mental picture of an amorous Yammy. Shinji turned towards Kensei and shrugged.

 

“Eh. We can take'm, boss.”

 

“And that's the spirit we need tonight,” Kensie agreed, nodding at the blond before turning and addressing everyone in the room. There seemed to be a longstanding natural hostility between the two teams. And there was every chance that this was going to be a bloodbath. He heard Grimmjow come in behind him, and he slid him a meaningful look over his shoulder.

 

“Let's just remember to keep our heads up tonight. We can't afford to lose anybody out there.”

 

Ichigo and Grimmjow both stopped what they were doing and glanced at each other, guarded brown meeting jaded blue for an brief moment in silent understanding. Kensei was warning his players to be extra vigilant. But between the lines, he was sending a message to the two of them.

 

No. More. Fights.

 

**X X X**

 

Despite their lacklustre performances, one by one the Reapers poured onto the ice to greet the near sell-out crowd. It turned out that even the national hockey league wasn't so dignified that it couldn't benefit from a little sensationalism. The scandal that had been the “shame of hockey” had also caused the ratings to skyrocket.

 

When number fifteen and number six hit the ice, the crowd erupted into a mix of jeers, cheers and catcalls. Reapers fans were mad, but at the same time, they seemed oddly fond of their temperamental duo. Ichigo was at a loss, and Grimmjow gave a perplexed shrug to one of his other teammates. It seemed they had become the crowd's “special little guys”.

 

The crowd was amped, a churning sea of black, blue and gold as fans spun towels high over their heads. Their respective cities were geographically close, and a few Hollow supporters were scattered through the stands, but they were always crowded out by the home team's legion of dedicated fans.

 

They booed the Hollows as they hit the ice. Everyone knew it was going to be dirty game. Both team's hated each other. At least the Reapers were on home turf this time around. Not that the idea of being in the lion's den would do anything _but_ bring out the savage in the Hollow's even more.

 

And they had their heavy hitters tonight. The Hollows were up to full force. After a shoulder injury and a pulled hamstring, Yammy Llargo and Nnnoitra Jiurga were back in the swing of things... those things being roughing up players and breaking up plays.

 

The Reapers got that message about thirty seconds in when one of their defence men, Kira Izuru, was dispatched against the boards. He stayed down and was tended to by the Reapers' medical staff for several minutes until he finally limped off the ice. It was a positive sign that he'd made it off the ice under his own power, but he wouldn't return for the rest of the night.

 

Not even a minute in, and the air felt positively charged. Even the arena's DJ had managed to capture the tense atmosphere, stirring the crowd up after the first injury with Eminem's, Lose Yourself.

 

**You better lose yourself in the music**

**The moment, you own it, you better never let it go**

**You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow**

**This opportunity comes once in a lifetime, yo**

 

You didn't need skill or talent to face off against the Hollows. You needed a survival plan.

 

That in itself, should have kept the two warring Reapers busy. But as soon as Ichigo fumbled his first pass from Grimmjow....and then his second... blue eyes landed on him and narrowed.

 

The first period was a disaster before it even started. While Ichigo seemed bent on getting into an all out sword fight over the puck with nearly every player on the opposing team, Grimmjow was busy trying to get himself penalized for harassing the players and the officials. In fact, his mouth had nearly gotten him ejected after a particularly unfavourable call against the Reaper's.

 

“Check your fuckin' rule book ref!” he'd barked. “You get your credentials outta a box a' fuckin' cereal?!”

 

But as long as they weren't fighting each other, the coach didn't seem to mind.

 

**X X X**

 

Grimmjow's earlier lassitude was long gone by the time he left the ice for the first intermission. He was energized, fired up, and pissed. Nothing was going right... the game, his career, his sex life, his.... that damn Kurosaki. Even Kensei was up in his business now. It was getting easier and easier to just surrender to the anger.

 

As it was, he'd surrendered his body to some heavy punishment in the first period. In one self sacrificing move, he'd allowed himself to collide with a player when he wasn't properly braced in order to give Ichigo a clear shot at the net. The Hollow's goalie had gone down to stop a shot and left the net wide open. Grimmjow had snagged the rebound but couldn't take a shot because he was screened by a Hollow. When the player ran at Grimmjow, he'd feathered the puck back to Ichigo and taken the hit. The net was open, but Ichigo still missed.

 

He'd played less than twenty minutes of the game he loved. And he was already feeling the beating he'd taken, chewing through his muscles and into his bones.

 

As he clattered down the hallway, trailing behind the team, his head was buzzing with missed chances, stolen opportunities, and wordless regrets. Things left buried and untouched in a shallow grave were whispering words he couldn't hear. And didn't want to.

 

The moment sunset hair came into view, the blue-haired forward snarled, and a wave of rage crashed against him as if he were rocks, drowning everything else out. Grimmjow didn't even waste a breath on formalities. As soon as he entered the locker room, he launched into a verbal assault, leaving a blindsided Ichigo to catch up to Grimmjow's train of thought on his own time.

 

“How the hell could you miss that?! I cleared you a fucking yellow brick road!”

 

The second the lights went on, Ichigo rounded on Grimmjow like a spinning top who's string had been ripped away.

 

“Who asked you to?!” he screamed. “I've told you! Quit protecting _me_ and worry about your damn self!”

 

“Yer the one who should be worried!” Grimmjow snapped. He brought his arm up as if to pull back for a right hook. Ichigo didn't even flinch.

 

“You wanna take a shot?” Ichigo growled, hands balled up at his sides “You go ahead, okay?!”

 

Kurosaki was livid, brown eyes almost black, so dark they looked hollowed out, his smooth features twisted with dark fury. Grimmjow felt his muscles turn watery as they lost their starch, and he nearly staggered back as if he'd taken a physical blow.

 

Grimmjow didn't like that look....

 

...being directed at him.

 

And there was that confusion again. That look both enraged and excited him, and stilled him. Grimmjow's feet wouldn't move as he watched Ichigo watch him back through unfamiliar eyes. It was like Grimmjow had broken through to the the thing beneath, the real, the raw, that part of Ichigo who had the decency not to hide behind the restraints of civility and social graces. The corner of number fifteen that was... a little bit uncivilized.

 

He hated it, and he loved it.

 

Grimmjow waited a beat for something, anything, to happen, someone to step in and pull him away from the trap he'd walked into again. But Ichigo just stared him down, unflinching, and unforgiving. It seemed he had nothing left to say to Grimmjow.

 

And that was when Grimmjow felt it, in his stomach, a hole that yawned wide inside him, like something had been lost, destroyed. Crushed by his own hand. It stunned him, and pissed him off.

 

For a few heart beats they held each others' gaze, waiting for the other to blink.

 

Grimmjow looked away first. He gave Ichigo a once over, looking him up and down, and snorted.

 

“Che. You gettin' so huffy about?” he mumbled. He turned on his bladed heel and retreated through the group of curious players that had stopped to watch the argument with varying degrees of concern. But it was over so fast, that they hadn't interfered.

 

Ichigo watched, stunned, as Grimmjow saunter away like 'that shit hadn't just happened.'

 

Shiro's arm came up across his chest like a bar, the intent to keep him from launching at Grimmjow's back. Apparently he had a bit of a murderous look in his eye that had concerned the pale player. But the arm meant to restrain him was actually steadying him. He teetered forward against Shiro's hand. It wasn't by very much, but the pale player felt it and pushed back, quietly acknowledging Ichigo's plight.

 

His knees were but a stringy ligament away from giving out after the sudden spike in his blood pressure that only Grimmjow seemed capable of causing. But the anger that had flared up seconds ago was already receding into burning curiosity. Grimmjow had come at him, again, and then bolted like a kitten who'd just realized the dog it was hissing at wasn't actually chained up.

 

Why did Grimmjow keep doing that? It was a definite pattern, the goading, the insults, the physical pressure. And to think, Ichigo had planned to talk to Grimmjow today... if he could mustered the guts. It wasn't fear per say that held him back, just the impotent feeling that trying to communicate with Grimmjow and have it be productive would be like running on a treadmill while searching for a needle in a haystack... at night... in the rain... with a glow-stick.

 

Grimmjow didn't really have an answer for Kurosaki's question. And the bluenet didn't even consider the fact that Ichigo might just tackle him from behind as he lumbered across the floor as quickly and casually as he could on his blades. He only considered one thing; that Grimmjow needed distance, fast.

 

He made his way across the floor and took a hard left into the washrooms, staying on the padded trail, passing the showers and sliding into one of the stalls. He closed the latch on the door with the back of his glove and let himself slump, shoulder and head pressed against the wall at his side, eyes shut tight, breaths panted shallow and fast through parted lips.

 

Kensei had been right.

 

He wouldn't be proud of this. Not this weak thing. Grimmjow was born to be strong, to be the best, to be king.

 

But right now.... he swallowed against a silent shudder.... in the stall of the washroom, in the Reapers locker room, in the middle of game in Seireitei's Sokyoku Hill Arena.... Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez...

 

...was quietly falling apart.

 

**X X X**

 

Just past the middle mark of the second, the Reapers were down three to one. The pace of the game remained fast and furious, and although the Hollow's had the mindset of merciless warriors, the physical play was wearing both teams down. It was a wonder that the Reaper's had only seen one major injury so far, but they still had a long way to go.

 

Their good health was thanks in part to the Reaper's enforcer. Any hint that the infamous sexta was distracted was masked by the blue-eyed forward's ugly behaviour. He didn't appear to have anything on his mind but aggressively annihilating every living thing on the ice that wasn't clothed in Reaper's colors.

And Ichigo noticed with growing unease how much attention he was getting for it. The crowd responded wildly to every violent hit he delivered. The coach patted him on the shoulder. And the Hollow's were lining him up every chance they got.

 

Grimmjow was definitely letting his dark side out tonight. In fact, he was being downright belligerent. Ichigo caught himself getting distracted time after time by the bluenet's savage snarls and his relentless pursuit of the opposing team. How the bluenet was managing to keep his hits relatively clean and avoid being taken down himself was frankly impressive. And Ichigo hadn't failed to notice as the game continued that Grimmjow had taken on Nnoitra's style of play, hitting players as hard as could without overtly breaking the rules. Or at least he wasn't getting caught.

 

Ichigo didn't like it. He knew something wasn't right. And he couldn’t shake the feeling that the clock was winding down.

 

The feeling only grew as the game went on. Ichigo could hardly keep his mind on the puck in front of him. Every time the boards crashed, he couldn't resist looking around to see if Grimmjow had finally taken himself out. It almost seemed to be his aim. And Ichigo shouldn't have been as concerned as he was about a man he didn't even like. But if he didn't care about the bluenet, then who would? Certainly not Grimmjow.

 

It seemed to Ichigo, more than ever, that Grimmjow didn't care about himself or his body. He would damage it because he knew it would heal, place himself physically in the line of fire, because flesh and bone would mend itself over time. Then he could do it again.

 

Well, apparently Ichigo, at least, wasn't going to let the blue-haired lunatic treat himself with careless disregard. And he'd yelled at the sexta in alarm to watch his back when the Hollow's quatra had come slithering up behind him.

 

Grimmjow was first in the race to the puck. And Ulquiorra was on him in a second, trying to run him from behind. The sexta heard the shout, but he'd seen it coming too. Grimmjow braced and grunted as he took the solid hit into the boards, the force of the impact sending a short shock wave rolling through the tall protective plastic windows one after the other. Ulquiorra staggered back from his own hit against the larger sexta, and before he could make a grab for the puck, Grimmjow shovelled it up the ice. He winced. Then he was moving again.

 

On his end, Ichigo was playing the very same game. Every time their shifts had coincided, Jiruga had been angling for a piece of him. Halfway through the second, the giant had caught Ichigo in the knee as he'd been skating towards the Hollow's goal, and Ichigo had fallen most ungracefully. He'd done an awkward cartwheel and crashed right into the net, taking the net off its moorings and carrying it along with him in an epic slide into the boards. The fans had jumped up in concern, but Ichigo had rolled out and climbed to his feet unharmed.

 

He'd been fine if not miffed. That was the closest thing to scoring he'd done all night. And Ichigo was throwing everything he had into it. Whenever he'd had the power to take his eyes off Grimmjow, he'd been making life as difficult for the Hollows as he could. More than ever, he had something to prove. That he was here to play hockey and that he deserved to be on this team, even if the mighty sexta didn't agree.

 

After the net was returned to its place, the game started up again. A few moments in, Ichigo caught a sloppy pass from his goaltender, and after a short scuffle behind the net, he gathered up the puck and took off down the ice. He ran along the boards, checking his blindside while trying to maintain control of the puck. He was only halfway up the ice before he suddenly rid himself of the black disc like it was a live grenade, shooting it across the ice and hoping it found the right stick.

 

The orangette had caught sight of the mountainous Hollow bearing down on him with an eager grin that turned his veins into ice trays.

 

Nnoitra Jiruga was an executioner, and he loved his job. And as suddenly as Ichigo saw him, the giant was crushed against him, running him down the ice against the short boards along the Hollow's bench. While Nnoitra leaned into him, Ichigo fought to keep from being upended into the bench. It happened to players quite frequently and it was never pretty. It was an undignified scene to be head first in your opposing teammates' lap. And being bent over and sandwiched against the boards could sometimes resulted in a broken rib.

 

But what was even more worrisome was the end of the bench, where the protective plexiglass rose up to separate the crowd from the on-ice action.

 

Every player's nightmare. A head-on collision with the dreaded partition. A padded steel post. And it was coming up fast.

 

Ichigo cursed as he tried to brake, but his skates were barely on the ice. Nnoitra Jiruga was taking him for a ride, lining him up with the oncoming edge of the barrier. And Jiruga, the heartless player that he was, wasn't even looking at Ichigo, playing it like he didn't know that he'd picked up a hitchhiker and was about to cause a catastrophic injury.

 

Ichigo's mind raced as the partition shot towards him. Ichigo had seen players laid up for months after this kind of dirty attack. This was not how Ichigo was going to go out. In a desperate attempt to save himself, he abandoned his stick and threw his arms up to absorb the blow as best he could as he collided with the steel post.

 

The fans were a turbulent ocean, cresting over their seats like white capped waves. They had paid good money for their seats to see the Reapers play the Hollows, and it was moments like these that kept them out of those seats for the entire game.

 

The crowd reacted with a collective gasp as number fifteen came to a sudden and painful stop against the barrier then spun down to the ice. Whistles blew, and the crowd began to boo and jeer its displeasure. But number fifteen was already trying to get up, pushing himself onto his knees as he caught his breath and waited for the bells to stop ringing. The displeased noise turned to hollers of elation even before Ichigo was helped the rest of the way to his feet by Shiro.

 

He was stunned, but he was okay. He had been saved by his reflexes and by the thick foam padding that lined the outer edges of the glass between the player's benches, a recent safety measure he was thankful for.

 

The fans at home had been just as wound up as the ticket holders in the stadium as they watched that moment play out on their screens.

 

The two game announcers' voices began low and calm.

 

“ _Jiruga has the puck. The Reapers are really feeling the pressure here tonight. The Hollows aren't giving them an inch of their own ice.”_

 

“ _They never do. They're a big team, and they'll fight ya in the ditch.”_

 

“ _Jaegerjaquez is trying to steal it back from Nnoitra Jiruga... and...Jiruga wins that one, rocketing a shot of at the goaltender. He makes the save, and flips it back up to Kurosaki who wrangles it away from Wonderweiss Margera behind the net and powers down the ice. Jiruga is hot on his heels and....he takes him against the boards and.... Jiruga rocks Kurosaki Ichigo!”_

 

The announcer broke his narrative long enough to suck in air and raise his voice several octaves before he painted a crystal clear picture of what was happening for hockey fans everywhere with three simple strokes.

 

“ _Here we go. Here we go! Shenanigans!!” he screamed._

 

The moment he saw Ichigo go down, Grimmjow pounced on Nnoitra like he'd stolen his winning lottery ticket.

 

“ _Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez is taking on Nnoitra Jiruga. And I don't like Jaegerjaquez's chances here because he is gonna get tagged bad.”_

 

“ _Jaegerjaquez has never backed down from any fight I've ever seen. And he's wrestling Jiruga nicely, just keeping his head out of Jiruga's long reach.”_

 

Jiruga laughed out loud at the sexta's attempt to fight him, as he did with all of his opponents. Like the ants they were, Jiruga would snuff them out with his large fist and lethal reach. The giant grinned and threw a quick hard punch, meant to knock Grimmjow's teeth clear of his mouth. But Grimmjow was faster.

 

Ichigo watched, still shaken from his hit, but unable to comprehend the look of rage on Grimmjow's face or the lightening fast way he manoeuvred himself around Nnoitra's strikes.

 

Grimmjow's world was clouded in a red haze. He may not have liked him, but he'd sworn to protect the orangette. And nobody, especially this evil asshole, was going to lay a hand on Kurosaki as long as Grimmjow breathed. Just the thought that he already had, brought his blood to the boil. The enforcer left his skates and thrust his right arm up towards Jiruga's throat. His gloves were long gone, two padded missiles that had skipped across the ice.

 

Jiruga blocked the bluenet's efforts and sneered. Grimmjow ignored it and tucked in low, head down as he took two hard blows to the back from above. He pulled back then ducked beneath Nnoitra's third punch, and instead of punching back, the enforcer dove back inside the deadly reach. He grabbed the Hollow's sleeve and yanked down as hard as he could, causing Nnoitra to stumble forward. Grimmjow snarled, victorious, and hooked his forearm over the lanky giants' shoulder, then pulled him close, putting him in a sideways headlock.

 

His hold was slipping fast, but Grimmjow jumped and tried to drag Jiruga the rest of the way down. The giant choked out a curse and threw his fist into Grimmjow's side, bone dense knuckles finding his ribs. Pain flared in his side, but like a pit pull hanging on with snapped tight jaws, the sexta wouldn't let go. He intended to use his weight and momentum to bring number five crashing down to ice level. Then we would let loose every ounce of rage he had onto his former teammate.

 

With a wheeze, Nnoitra came to his knees. But before Grimmjow could even throw one punch, the linesmen and several players were between them,pulling them apart like sticky toffee.

 

The arena music and cheers of approval together were earsplitting. They were both headed to the sin bin. Nnoitra for his hit on Ichigo. Grimmjow for instigating.

 

Grimmjow trucked across the ice, breath heavy in his lungs, hair in disarray where his helmet had been torn from his head during his struggles. It had taken a lot of energy to go up against Nnoitra, like trying to wrestle down an overweight grizzly bear. And he'd been putting his all into this game, trying to be a good enforcer, if nothing else.

 

He stepped into the sin bin to wait out his five minutes, coming down hard on his ass and aching thighs. Fans banged on the glass behind him, trying to grab his attention. He ignored it for a moment, but their persistence finally paid off as Grimmjow turned and flashed them an arrogant grin. Sometimes, he forgot that he was a hero in their eyes. The one player that took punishment almost as much as he dished it out. So, he showed them what they loved to see, and not the mild tremors he felt running through his legs.

 

When the penalty was over, Grimmjow returned to the bench. He was greeted with a gloved high five by Kaien Shiba, their best defence-man, and the only man to score so far tonight.

 

“Yo, Grimmjow! You're the king, baby! Did you eat nails for breakfast again?”

 

Grimmjow sneered with contempt and snorted while Kaien shoved down the bench, making room for Grimmjow right next to Ichigo.

 

“No,” he rumbled. “I'm still hungry.” He slammed his stick against the boards. “Feed me that fucker.”

 

Grimmjow wedged his way into his spot, hips pressed against those of the man he'd just avenged.

 

Still a bit dazed, Ichigo had been impressed all to shit while he watched Grimmjow attack Nnoitra without regard for himself. But by now he was over being amazed. Now Ichigo was just incensed. It was more than aggressive. It was messed up. Ichigo couldn't stand it.

 

”What the hell do you think you were doing back there?” Ichigo hissed. Grimmjow turned his battered visage and curled his lip at Ichigo in a parody of a grin.

 

“Just helping out a lady in distress,” he drawled.

 

“I don't need your help,” Ichigo growled back, refusing to give his partner the satisfaction of knowing that the barb had stung. He gave Grimmjow's freshly marred face a pointed once over as Grimmjow looked back and down at him from the corner of his eye. “Jesus, look at you, ” Ichigo muttered.

 

“Che. Don't be such a killjoy.” Grimmjow spared Ichigo an unreadable slit-eyed inspection, then azure eyes looked away.

 

“You're being reckless,” Ichigo grumbled, scowling at the players as they battled at the far end of the ice. He'd had a good long look at the bluenet when he'd deposited himself beside Ichigo on the bench. He didn't need to look again. Grimmjow was already developing a bone yard of scars and scrapes all over his face, and the night was far from over.

 

Grimmjow kept his gaze trained on the ice, looking distinctly disinterested with what Ichigo had to say.

 

“Man up, Kurosaki,” he breathed. “You ain't speedin', you ain't racin.”

 

Ichigo glared across the ice at one of the advertizing slogans pasted along the boards.

 

It read, “Where hockey lives”.

 

He snorted.

 

No.

 

 _This_ was where _stubborn_ lived.

 


	15. Chapter 15

A few more shifts on the ice, and the buzzer sounded like a death knoll. They'd made it through the second period without giving up any more goals, but the chances of the tired, battered team coming back to win it seemed lost on the horizon.

 

At the moment, Grimmjow could care less. He wanted to have a word with the spirited, brown-eyed bane of his existence. The frantic mommy routine was getting under Grimmjow's skin, not because the younger man seemed to care, but because Grimmjow couldn't imagine why he did.

 

He knew what the answer would be, that Ichigo just cared about people in general, and that Grimmjow was no different. Then Grimmjow could tell him to go to hell and to quit acting like he gave a shit and to stay out of Grimmjow's fucking business.

 

But time was running out. The sexta had been held back by the coach at the bench. The man had just wanted to tell Grimmjow what a great job he'd been doing and to keep up that energetic attitude. He didn't seem to give a shit how much time Grimmjow spent in the penalty box. He just wanted him for his body. Well... didn't everyone.

 

The bluenet entered the Reaper's changing area and glowered around the room, annoyed when the shock of sun-bright hair didn't immediately make itself apparent.

 

“Where is that shit stain?” he growled at Shiro. The albino shrugged at him from his carved out space near the corner of the bench, knowing full well who the blue-haired enforcer was talking about.

 

Grimmjow slid his helmet off and ran long fingers through sweat matted hair, huffing in annoyance at the little tremble of anxiety that shook them to their tips.

 

His target missing, Grimmjow didn't know which way to go. So, he stood at the entrance while he pondered the forward's absence. He wasn't hurt enough to need attention, he mused. The coach must've held him back to do an interview during intermission.

 

A lot of the player's did that, but Grimmjow refused to during a game. He didn't mind being well known and signing an occasional autograph, but having a camera lens shoved in his face, especially in the middle of a game, was akin to being in a dentist's chair and having an unskilled technician bore holes in his molars with a power drill. And the whole ordeal just messed with his head. When he was in the arena and game time came, he was the Sexta. He had enough distractions already.

 

Grimmjow's scowl sharpened, and he mumbled an expletive. He couldn't wait around all day for the orangette to return. He had his own shit to take care of. Grimmjow lifted his gaze from the empty spot where number fifteen should have been, and came to life. He turned to cross the room, only to realize his path was being blocked by a blond-haired obstruction.

 

Shinji Hirako was faced away, stretching his back, twisting at the waste while he held his stick horizontal across the back of his shoulders. And he was right in the middle of Grimmjow's fucking road.

 

“Move yer fuckin' ass outta the way, Hirako. People need ta get through.” Grimmjow bulldozed past the much smaller player, making Shinji stagger as he pushed his way by to get to his locker.

 

“Holy shit, Grim! What's with you tonight?” the blond groused angrily. “Has it been twenty eight days since your last period?”

 

Shinji knew that next to the popular enforcer, he didn't even rate on the danger scale, but he had no qualms about mouthing off to anyone who got in his face. Outside of the rink, he would avoid a fight if he thought it best, but he was a scrapper by nature, and when push came to shove, Shinji could be as tough as anyone.

 

Grimmjow came to a sudden stop and spun around, causing nearly every head to turn in alarm.

 

“Hey! Fuck you, Hirako!” Grimmjow snapped, eyes flashing. Shinji swallowed around a suddenly dry throat as the large enforcer stared him down. The bluenet was visibly holding himself back, but as a few tense heartbeats skipped by, he seemed to reign in his burst of anger and began to turn away.

 

“Only if you buy me dinner first,” Shinji jeered. He was still rankled from the bluenet's abuse, and equally peeved from their poor showing so far in tonight's game. Grimmjow wasn't the only one on this team, but he damn well acted like it. For such a tough guy, he was becoming more and more of a drama queen every day.

 

The blond haired man yelped but danced neatly around the glove that was hurled across the locker room, the heavy gear slamming into the wall behind him at head level before landing with a hollow thud on the floor.

 

Ichigo paused at the doorway, pondering his timing as a glove struck the wall behind Shinji like it had been fired from a rocket launcher. He sighed, and crossed the threshold as quietly as he could, slipping into his space in the corner. He didn't need to guess who the glove belonged to.

 

Shinji Hirako turned and frowned at the glove as he pondered his chances with another retaliatory comment. They probably weren't good.

 

Grimmjow wasn't playing.

 

As usual, with the long practised ease of a lion tamer, it was Kensei who stepped in and defused the bluenet before he could really go off on all the wrong people. Tempers were really beginning to flare. They were losing to the Hollows on home ice _again_ after two periods of play, and everybody needed to keep a cool head if they had any chance of pulling a win out of their ass before the night was done.

 

“C'mon, Grimmjow. Tell us why you ain't afraid of Nnoitra Jiruga,” Kensei prodded, a hint of mischief in his eyes. He already knew the answer, having heard it several times before. Ichigo caught the banter as he slumped in his seat and pressed against the ache in his temples with thumb and forefinger, by chance hidden from Grimmjow's line of sight by Shinji and Shiro.

 

Grimmjow sneered, fang-like teeth glinting as he leaned forward and yanked hard on the strings of his skates, readjusting them for maximum comfort. He quickly looped the laces into a tight figure eight before raising his head and deigning to grace the rest of the team with his often expressed but still much enjoyed opinion.

 

“Cause he's a tiny guy with a tiny brain that just ate way the fuck too much.”

 

The tension that had formed inside the room seemed to dissipate like steam, instantly forgotten as the room burst into the easy laughter of a long shared sentiment. Grimmjow's smirk widened as someone patted him on the back, and another tapped the top of his helmet, the first arrivals already beginning to move towards the door.

 

The only person who didn't crack a smile was Ichigo.

 

**X X X**

 

The two game announcers bantered back and forth as they skillfully described the play by play action of the third period, bringing the on-ice battles to life for radio listeners and television viewers alike.

 

“ _Jaegerjaquez and Jiruga are going at it like dogs in the corner, both of them fighting to gain control of the puck in the Hollow's zone.”_

 

“ _It looks like Jaegerjaquez is trying to dig his way to china.”_

 

“ _Yes, it certainly does. Boy, those boys are really going at it.”_

 

“ _Well, Jiruga's not a well liked man, and those two have never cared for each other, even when they were teammates... as we saw earlier.”_

 

“ _There's no love lost there, that's for sure. And they're finally out of the corner.”_

 

“ _Well, Jiruga won that battle, and the puck is back in play. He passes it off to his teammate, Jaegerjaquez hot on his heels...”_

 

Ichigo watched the sexta from his spot inside the penalty box, already standing and ready to re-enter the fray. He was doing time for fighting. He hadn't started it, but he'd finished it.

 

Grimmjow poured on power like he had a tank of nos in his skates, and within two seconds he was back in the centre of the play. For a moment, Ichigo felt a deep swell of respect for the bluenet. That's what made him so deadly. He was a demon on the ice. He could match all but the very best speed for speed, and he could pivot on a dime. When Grimmjow had you in his sites, your paper work had better be in order.

 

The only other man on the ice tonight who was meaner than Grimmjow was Nnoitra Jiruga. He was nearly seven feet of the most concentrated evil in hockey. How the man still managed to stay in the league was mind boggling to Ichigo. In his worst moments, Grimmjow was about as rough as they came, but Jiruga was a fruit of an entirely different color.

 

He was dirty, and he was sneaky, and he was cruel. Nnoitra watched the refs and chose his moments. He was quick and precise with his movements, bringing up an elbow and using it like a battering ram as he ran rival player's heads into the boards. Nnoitra wasn't even technically an enforcer. He just enjoyed obliterating other players. The dark-haired defence man had ended at least two careers in as many years that Ichigo knew of, and there was little doubt that he'd do it again if given the right opportunity.

 

The door opened and Ichigo jumped without hesitation back into the mess of players, tearing down the ice towards the play.

 

Except for the two defence-men, who hung back, the entire Hollow's team seemed to be throwing an impromptu party in the Soul Reaper's defensive zone. They had the puck firmly in their control, and the forwards were biding their time, passing the puck back and forth as they waited for the perfect opening. The Reapers shifted and shimmied on the ice, holding their positions while reaching out for the puck with their sticks, slicing and jabbing, trying to force the Hollow forwards to either make their play or make a mistake.

 

The crowd roared and boo'd the hated opposing team, and the tension that had built became nearly intolerable for both the fans and the players after a long minute of relative inaction.

 

And then, finally, a miracle. The Hollows' number four, Ulquiorra Cifer took his chance and wound up for a shot on goal. The crack of a slap shot echoed through the arena. Renji deflected the puck, and Shiro blasted it back down the ice and out of the danger zone. The Hollow's retreated, and the Reaper's followed. The teams swooped across the ice, turning as one, like a school of starving piranha.

 

As if it had been greased, the puck skidded from player to player, both teams finding it then losing it again. Grimmjow and Ichigo both cut a swath through heavy traffic on the turnarounds. Players seemed to be moving in all directions. With ten men scrambling around the ice, the rink looked like an ant hill caught in the beam of a magnifying glass.

 

Finally, it was Ichigo's turn to try and hold the puck. He grit his teeth and drove forward. It was hard to keep an eye on all the movements of the players, but he eeked his way towards the Hollow's goal, waiting for a mythical parting of the sea. He wasn't going to lose this time. He was going to make this shot count.

 

While Ichigo's opponent was rushing up to meet him, across the ice, Grimmjow was contending with Ulquiorra, who was lining him up for an open ice hit. Grimmjow didn't care. He could easily outmanoeuvre the quatra. And from his angle their appeared to be a weak point in the Hollow's defence. And Grimmjow wanted a piece of it.

 

“Kurosaki! Pass the damn puck, you fucker!” Grimmjow bellowed from across the ice as they skated at breakneck speed towards the two Hollow defence men, while avoiding two team's worth of criss-crossing players.

 

Ichigo spared the bluenet a brief glance as he powered down the ice. He made a small motion with his stick, faking a pass to the Sexta. It worked to confuse his opponent, and as a delicious bonus, served to tease the insufferable bluenet too. Open or not, there was no way Ichigo was giving up the puck to that asshole. Grimmjow and him were done.

 

He'd made that decision as he'd nursed his throbbing temples. Whether Grimmjow liked him or not, and whether Grimmjow totalled himself or not, Ichigo couldn't be bothered. If Grimmjow wouldn't listen to him, then Ichigo wasn't going to give him the time of day.

 

Ichigo raced ahead to meet the solitary player between him and the net. He poured on a burst of speed, and with all the agility of a world class figure skater, skirted around the Hollow with insulting ease. It was like a weight had lifted from his shoulders. Perhaps his decision, and time away from the game and Grimmjow had been good for him.

 

Grimmjow snarled as he watched Ichigo pull his stick back then snap it forward, firing off a short, hard slap shot that skipped once across the ice as it careened towards the crouching goalie.

 

Grimmjow powered forward to catch the inevitable rebound, head down as he leaned into the rush. Even without looking, he skirted around Ulquiorra with ease, who was coming at him like a bullet.

 

He wasn't aware that he'd just made a terrible mistake as he watched the puck sail towards the net.

 

It was a set up. Number four was just a distraction. The real danger lay right behind him.

 

_Number one rule in hockey; if you don't want to get seriously injured.... always keep your head up._

 

A moment wouldn't have made a difference. The bluenet was tearing up the ice, his focus and his mind momentarily zeroed in on number fifteen. It wouldn't have mattered if he'd seen the bastard Hollow. He was going way too fast to stop or even change direction in time to avoid the soul shattering collision. There was no time to pull the emergency brake. But if he'd had his head up, he at least could have braced for it.

 

Grimmjow looked up in time to see nothing but pure white as the Hollow's number five hunched low and bulldozed into him, hitting the bluenet with every bit of force he had and rocking him to his core.

 

The punishing hit stilled the lungs of the entire arena.

 

For Grimmjow, it was like a nuclear device had gone off inside his body.

 

The heart stopping collision took Grimmjow off his feet and sent the upended player ass over teakettle into the air and straight over Nnoitra's lowered shoulder. The bluenet gritted his teeth as pain rocked through his muscles and tightened around his bones. The breath exploded from his lungs, and the world spun out of control as the Reaper's enforcer went airborne, flipping once end over end in an uncontrolled spiral before crashing back to the arena floor with ice like hard cement. It was the kind of devastating hit that would be replayed over and over for days to come.

 

Grimmjow hit the ice surface hard enough to bounce once before abruptly going limp, his own momentum carrying the stunned player in a slow, lazy spin down the ice on his back, and leaving a trail of random gear strewn behind him.

 

Stick. Gloves.

 

Helmet.

 

The Soul Reapers bench erupted into a furious uproar of angry shouts and curses, hockey sticks striking against the boards in outrage. That the display was unnecessary didn't matter to the irate Reapers, because one of theirs was down and someone needed to pay. The officials were already calling the penalty on the Hollow's number five, and Jiruga wasn't arguing the call.

 

Nnoitra sneered down at the Reaper's who'd instantly surrounded him like a pack of wild dogs.

 

“Whatcha gonna do?” he sneered, large white teeth flashing like a creature that would happily eat its own. “You wanna play wit' me too?”

 

Ikkaku, Shiro and Shuhei Hisagi glared up at the simpering giant. Shiro gave him one hard shove before he felt himself being pulled back.

 

“He's not worth it,” Hisagi muttered.

 

“Yeah, let the league deal with that piece of shit,” Ikaku added, trying to sound objective to cover for their guilty consciences.

 

If that were anybody else but the sexta laying on the ice, Grimmjow would have taken care of it. It was sad, but Grimmjow was the only one with the rocks to actually challenge Nnoitra directly and not back down.

 

Jiruga didn't even bother to contest the call against him for the dirty hit. The lanky giant skated casually towards the penalty box, grinning as maliciously as a super villain, his eyes never leaving the man he had just annihilated until he reached the box and stepped inside to wait out his penalty. Nnoitra didn't even concern himself with the notion that a Soul Reaper might retaliate as he headed towards the box. That just never happened. No one dared touch him.

 

He sneered as he watched the aftermath play out on the cold arena floor, enjoying the sight of the so called sexta lying in a sad heap on the ice. He wondered if he'd managed to break anything, perhaps even end his career. He hoped not, because he'd really love the chance to throw another hit like that one at the blue-haired enforcer again one day.

 

Nnoitra squinted through the hazy plexiglass. He seemed to still be alive at least, and he had somehow rolled off of his back and now lay curled up on the ice in the foetal position, body jerking in short spasms as he tried to regain his breath. Nnoitra's grin stretched across his long, scarred face.

 

The sexta was suffering. Probably thought he was dying too. Maybe he was. Nnoitra laughed to himself. The officials were still debating his penalty, looking over the tapes to see if they should kick him out of the game. He hoped he didn't get ejected. He really didn't want to miss the show.

 

**. . .**

 

Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez writhed in wordless agony. He was having a hell of a time trying to do what used to come so naturally to him as he lay on his side. He wasn't aware that he'd rolled over, or even which way was up or down. Nothing but breathing mattered. But that position wasn't helping any, and somehow he ended up on his back again.

 

The ice was cold on the back of his head as he lay gasping and semi conscious from the paralysing hit. Blue eyes stayed slitted open, and the high ceiling seemed many miles away, blurring in and out. Things were hazy, dark... except the pain, as Grimmjow struggled not to black out.

 

All of the space had been forced from his lungs. His muscles weren't doing what they were supposed to, and he desperately needed air. He felt like he was trapped beneath the rubble of a cave-in, and no amount of force would move his lungs.

 

Fuck him, he was crying he was fighting so hard to breath. He gasped a few more times, and finally something happened. Air. Not much, but some. Control was starting to return, a little at a time, keeping him from going over the edge and into nothing.

 

Darkness and light swarmed together over his vision. He couldn't make sense of anything. The world was shadows and blurred movements that hurt his eyes. He brain was vibrating, sounds reaching him in jarring fragments through pulsing chopper blades.

 

“Give... ...some air. ...Grimmjow. Can you... ...me, Grimmjow?”

 

The sounds kept hitting him between the beats of the base drum of his skull. They made no sense at all.

 

“ ...your eyes?”

 

But at least he could breath a bit now. And he could moan.

 

“Nnnnn...”

 

**X X X**

 

**Thirty seconds ago...**

 

Ichigo pumped his arm once in celebration as he circled back around behind the net. The buzzer was sounding. Horns were blowing. And the excited fans were screaming out cheers of encouragement, many of them leaping from their seats, beer and nachos spilling in the process. He'd done it. It wouldn't win the game, but he'd finally fucking scored.

 

Ichigo beamed as he soaked it up. Fans were always with you when you were winning, and Ichigo knew he had to enjoy these moments when he could.

 

Just as quickly as the crowd reached a crescendo, it fell sharply away to a deeper buzz, one mixed with dwindling cheers and growing murmurs of concern, then to an almost silence. The orangette's smile vanished as he rounded the Hollow's net and saw the reason for the crowd's sudden loss of enthusiasm.

 

Grimmjow had been levelled.

 

And he was laying motionless on the ice.

 

The livings rooms and crowded bars across the country went as deathly quiet as the arena. People rooting for both teams watched with rapt attention and concern, straining to catch every word as the two announcers did their best to give a blow by blow account of the frightening hit and its aftermath. It didn't matter which team the fans were rooting for when a man went down, and the divide wasn't quite so obvious as hockey fans cringed together, united in sympathy.

 

“ _That was one of the hardest hits I've seen in a long time, even coming from a big guy like Jiruga.”_

 

“ _Number six, Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez just took a devastating hit from the Hollow's Nnoitra Jiruga. And he is... not moving.”_

 

“ _Oh.. Oh mercy.”_

 

“ _Two very big, very strong men colliding... Let's go to the replay to see just what happened there... ... And here's the hit. Oooh. Jaegerjaquez made a big mistake.”_

 

“ _Yeah. Yeah. See. He had his head down. You just can't do that, because this is what happens.”_

 

“ _He didn't even have a chance to brace himself. They're both big guys. All that speed. All that weight. He was caught right in the centre of the perfect storm.”_

 

“ _You can see in the replay that Jiruga tucks low and gets his shoulder right in there. He clearly meant to do him damage.”_

 

“ _Oh, definitely. And a dirty, dirty hit. Jiruga's not trying to separate Jaegerjaquez from the puck here. His intent was to separate him from his consciousness.”_

 

“ _Yup. He lined him up. He sized him up. He laid him out.”_

 

“ _And number six comes down like a tonne of bricks onto the ice. If we slow it right down we see that he manages to get his hands out before he lands on his left shoulder, but he still hits the side of his face and loses his helmet... Oh. I cringe seeing this.”_

 

“ _I don't think he managed anything. I think it was just dumb luck that his arms got in the way or else he'd be in an even bigger world of hurt than he's in right now.”_

 

“ _And we still don't really know how bad this is.”_

 

“ _It seems that... oh... and number six is moving now, but he appears to be in distress. It's hard to tell if he's in pain or if he's had the wind knocked out of him.”_

 

“ _Let's just hope it was the latter.”_

 

“ _He's definitely smarting but he seems to be... gasping or convulsing. I can't tell but... Oh dear. This is hard to watch. He is in serious trouble right now.”_

 

“ _The officials are already calling for a stretcher. And... oh, there is blood on the ice as well. He's coughing up blood..”_

 

“ _Oh, not good. Let's hope it's just a cut.”_

 

“ _Medical staff from both teams are out there right now and are checking him out, and they'll assess the situation as promptly as possible.”_

 

“ _There is some major concern going on right now for Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez... here in Seireitei tonight.”_

 

“ _For anyone just tuning in, the Reapers' number fifteen, Kurosaki Ichigo, just scored a great goal, but right at the edge of the play one of his teammates, Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez, got taken down and has made no move to get up. Kurosaki and Grimmjow are the infamous two Reaper's who actually managed to get into a fist fight in the middle of a game just before Christmas.”_

 

“ _If we go back to the replay... it appears that Jaegerjaquez's attention was on Kurosaki just before the hit. It looks like number fifteen faked a pass to his teammate right beforehe scored. The fact that those two have had considerable disagreements in their first season together is well known. But Kurosaki is hovering close by and appears to be quite concerned. You gotta wonder what's going on in his head right now.”_

 

“ _Indeed. This is a bad turn of events for the Reapers and for Jaegerjaquez. We can only keep our fingers crossed here.”_

 

**. . .**

 

Ichigo skated over to the fallen bluenet and stood just outside the inner circle of players and medical personnel, trying not to appear as concerned as he felt. Apparently he failed miserably because Kaien Shiba was suddenly leaning against him, shoulder to shoulder, a breezy smile plastered across his face.

 

“Man it looks like a yard sale out here,” the defence-man quipped as he took in the scattered equipment.

 

Kaien pulled back on his bright edged smile, replacing it with something more sincere as he took in the anxious look on Ichigo's face. He nudged the younger man in the arm.

 

“Oh, he'll be alright,” he coaxed. “Grimmjow can take a hit.”

 

It was a half-hearted attempt at best to lighten the grim mood. Conscious or not, Grimmjow had a serious case of scrambled eggs going on, and a trip to the hospital was going to be unavoidable. It didn't help that guys like Grimmjow turned into giant babies when they were injured, not babies that didn't want to play, but the kind that stayed stubbornly on the bench, refusing to sit out or take help when it was offered. Sometimes a kick in the ass was needed to make a player leave the game and get medical attention. Hockey was a rough game and in situations like this, the players' health was always a priority.

 

Ichigo's stomach felt pinched. Like he'd been shot in the gut with a staple gun. This was the kind of hit nobody ever wanted to see, no matter who the player. Grimmjow could have a concussion, or broken bones, or even internal injuries. That shit happened. Kaien was trying to reassure him that Grimmjow would be fine, that he wasn't dying in front his teammates. But he looked so pale, distressed and out of it, just like people who'd been rushed into his father's clinic and hadn't made it through. And the spatter of blood on the ice was even less reassuring.

 

He glanced up at the screen overhead which was replaying the incident. What he saw took the air from his lungs. He saw Grimmjow do a half gainer before coming down headfirst and smacking his face on the ice. Ichigo paled. Now that he'd seen the hit for himself, he marvelled that Grimmjow was even moving. He never could have absorbed something like that himself.

 

Ichigo turned his eyes back to the real Grimmjow in front of him. He could still see the man's chest heaving, and the crowd had quieted enough that Ichigo could just make out the disturbing desperate noises Grimmjow was making as he tried to regain control over his spasming diaphragm.

 

He could see that his eyes were cracked open, a shock of blue sapphire peeking out, but he could tell he wasn't truly seeing. In fact, Grimmjow looked panicked. And Ichigo's insides were fast becoming hysterical right alongside him. Nothing about the image in front of Ichigo looked right. Grimmjow wasn't supposed to be struggling like that. He was tough, and hard headed, practically forged from the fiery core of the earth. The world wasn't right when the bluenet looked so helpless.

 

Ichigo mentally slapped himself. It probably looked worse than it was. Hopefully, the impact had just knocked the wind out of him, his nervous system momentarily paralysed by the crushing hit. And the blood was probably a just a cut.

 

So what if he looked like something stuck to the side of the highway. It was a common sight for hockey players who were hit hard to go down with limbs raised, giving them the affect of looking like day old road kill. Grimmjow's right arm hung suspended in the air, raised vertically at the elbow as he lay there gasping.

 

But he was in good hands now. The team's trainers and doctor had slid their way across the ice with the aid of two Soul Reapers. When they finally reached the prone player, Grimmjow's arm had begun to move, raising and then lowering partway to the ice in a parody of a wave. In his mind he was probably trying to get up, but the hapless player's body clearly had a whole other set of plans.

 

A few players crowded loosely around the downed player, purposely hindering the cameras that were zoomed in on the scene, while the team's personal physician worked with the bluenet, leaning in tightly and talking to him. After a minute, the doctor leaned back and signalled towards the bench. They needed the stretcher.

 

Grimmjow wasn't responding normally.

 

**. . .**

 

Grimmjow brushed irritably at the offending hands, refusing to let himself be picked up off the ice like some helpless infant.

 

“Jaegerjaquez, quit fighting,” the doctor ordered firmly. “We need to get you on the stretcher.”

 

As much as Grimmjow wanted to get up, they weren't going to let him. But bell rung or not, Grimmjow wasn't interested in the doctor's advice and paid him no attention. Instead, he rolled suddenly onto his front using his weight to slip out of the grasp of the doctor, gathering his forearms beneath him and pushing himself up.

 

He made it as far as all fours before he felt his limbs begin to tremble violently, threatening to drop him back onto the hard surface. Gravity had taken on new meaning to the struggling bluenet. There seemed to be a lot more of it around than what he was used to, and no amount of effort seemed to be enough to raise himself up. He slid back down onto his stomach and groaned in frustration, shrugging off more hands from his shoulder.

 

“Get off me. M'fine,” he slurred. He just needed to give it one more try.

 

“Grimmjow. You need to lay still. You could have fractured vertebrae and...”

 

“F- Fuck off. I ain't... broken,” he snapped, forehead hovering just above the ice. His eyelids felt lead weighted, and he let them close (just for a moment). Then he suddenly realized that he wasn't even sure why he was on the ground and why it was so important for him to get up.

 

A snide voice chimed in from somewhere above him.

 

“See? He's already his old charming self.”

 

He forced them to open and grunted in warning. He was dying, and someone was being a fucking comedian?

 

“Ya _know_ the only way you're gonna get Grimmjow on that board is if you knock him back unconscious,” a second familiar voice added, sounding closer than the one before it.

 

There was a quiet “I got this”, followed by a much too cheerful, “Upsy daisy,” as a strong arm swooped in beneath Grimmjow's armpit and tightened around his bicep. Grimmjow glance blearily towards the voice, still half trying to figure out who was attempting to rouse him at this ungodly hour, until he was distracted by the pull of a second arm catching him from the other side and slowly hoisting him up.

 

He didn't resist when he felt himself being raised.

 

“There we go, big fella. We gotcha.” The mysterious good Samaritans took their time, raising him with the same dignity and delicate care that would be shown to a fragile artifact being hoisted up from an ancient wreck resting on the ocean floor.

 

His helpers were about as gentle as they knew how to be, but the upward motion still hit him like a two-by-four. And then he opened his eyes.

 

Whoa. Too fast. Too fast.

 

“H-up.” Grimmjow swallowed hard, forcing his stomach to hold onto its contents as a blurry sea of obnoxiously loud people spun lazily around him. He squeezed his eyes shut and blew out several quick breaths trying to calm his insides before he did throw up.

 

“Easy Grim.” The voice in his ear sounded concerned, caring. If they really cared, they'd let him sit the fuck down, or else he'd be doing the technicolour yawn. But wait, he'd wanted up hadn't he? He had to get somewhere, didn't he?

 

Oh fuck. The pulsing and pressure inside his head proved that there was still blood in there, but there didn't seem to be enough to work his brain. Things were going from fuzzy to downright blank. He couldn't think, and it was beginning to scare him. That must have been some bender. He didn't go on many of those, and he couldn't remember anything from last night at all. He was kind of thankful that he had such good friends that they were actually helping him into bed. He just wished all the idiots making a ruckus would take it down a notch.

 

Several things suddenly struck him at once. What was with all the people anyway? And what were they all doing in his bedroom? Nobody was supposed to be in his bedroom.

 

He frowned as he felt his feet begin to slide beneath him. His floor was slippery. Had he spilled something on it? It didn't feel like water, more like sliding on ice. No. Not _like_ ice. He _was_ on ice. Was it winter? Yeah, it was. But in his room? Wait. He was... hockey... he was playing hockey. Now someone was holding him up. He must have gotten hurt or something.

 

A small surge of relief flooded him as he began to pull the shattered pieces of his mind back together. But just as he did, they seemed to want to float away again. Thoughts were slippery, hard to hold onto, but he knew one thing for certain at least. Everything was still attached, his arms, his legs, his head, his face. He knew that for a fact, because they all fucking hurt. His left temple was thumping a chorus line in time with the side of his face and his shoulder. And it hurt to breath, as if every muscle remotely involved in the process had been mashed into a painful pulp.

 

Like cars at a race track, the pieces of his memory were circling back again. He was on the ice, playing hockey, and he was being helped up because he... because... he... had been run over by the Zamboni.

 

Hah. That was it. Nailed it.

 

While Grimmjow tried to gather up his brain cells, which were scattered across the floor of his mind like children's building blocks, Nnoitra Jiruga was receiving a suspension.

 

The crowd hissed and booed as Jiruga exited the penalty box, giving him less than the send off he deserved. He was getting a five minute major for his illegal hit, to be served by the rest of the team, and a match penalty for deliberately injuring the Reapers' enforcer. Ichigo mentally applauded as he watched Nnoitra leave the penalty box. He got caught. He wasn't so smooth this time, and he was as good as gone. He watched number five skate to the exit. He was going away for the night. He was done. That was for the best. Ichigo wanted nothing more than to sink his fist into Nnoitra Jiruga's head for this, and it would certainly end badly all around if he acted on that impulse.

 

Nnoitra gone, Ichigo turned his attention back to where it needed to be. Grimmjow was up and moving now and he seemed slightly more aware than he had been minutes ago. In fact, for a man who had just taken an unscheduled nap, the stubborn bluenet was nearly as chock full of piss and vinegar as ever, griping over the unnecessary fuss they were making of him, arguing that he didn't need their help, then mumbling that he would be good to go in a couple of minutes. Yeah. He was fine. He was fine.

 

“Just need... ta sit... on th'bench fer a min,” he mumbled, “an' I'll be good ta go... fuckin' driver.”

 

His two escorts exchanged worried looks. Grimmjow was right out of it. He didn't even seem to realize that he wasn't being guided back to the bench.

 

No one would ever argue that Grimmjow couldn't talk a good game, but the weight the two players were now being forced to hold up was a testament to just how badly the bluenet felt. He was breathing like he was in labour, clearly nauseous, likely concussed, and in the short time it took for the trio to reach the open door that led out of the rink, Grimmjow had begun to slump. Shiro turned and signalled with his head to the medical staff who were trailing right behind them. They were going to need that stretcher after all.

 

The crowd had begun to clap and cheer their Sexta on as they watched number six stagger numbly to his feet while two Reapers slowly helped lift the unsteady player from the ice and began to glide him towards the exit on the far side of the arena. It looked like a small parade as the team doctor, assistants and empty stretcher trailed closely behind the unsteady threesome.

 

While the crowd cheered and applauded, the players slapped their sticks against the ice and the bench to show their support as well. Some of the fans were even pumping their arms in the air as a song burst out through the speakers and the chorus for David Guetta's “Titanium” boomed through the stadium.

 

**_I'm bulletproof, nothing to lose_ **  
**_Fire away, fire away_ **  
**_Ricochet, you take your aim_ **  
**_Fire away, fire away_ **

**_You shoot me down but I won't fall_ **  
**_I am titanium_ **  
**_You shoot me down but I won't fall_ **  
**_I am titanium_ **

 

Grimmjow winced as a loud noise suddenly thundered around him, an unearthly voice jangling every sensitive nerve inside his aching body. He didn't realize they were playing his unofficial anthem, a salute in his honour, that they were showing him their admiration and affection.

 

He didn't realize.

 

And if he had, he wouldn't have cared. He just wanted all the goddamn noise to shut the fuck off. His entire body, and his head was no exception, felt like it had been crushed with a giant pestle and ground into a grainy paste.

 

The near seizure-inducing electronic beat that followed sent Grimmjow's aching head throbbing its way into new levels of agony. Why didn't the fuckers just throw a load of bricks into a burlap sack and beat him over the head with it? Everything he'd eaten today was on its way back up again and they were all gonna regret it if they didn't settle down. He ducked his head and squeezed his eyes shut, giving up his trust to his team mates, while he let himself be guided blindly along the ice.

 

Ichigo skated along behind the action, veering off towards the players bench with a tight feeling in his gut. The music was a nice sentiment, but by the pained expression on his face, they weren't doing Grimmjow any favours by blaring a song in his honour. That was one serious hit he had taken to be this shaken up. And Ichigo couldn't dislodge the feeling that he was more than partially responsible for Grimmjow's trip to emerg.

 

Never mind that they'd recently scrapped during a game. Things really were out of control when shit like this started to happen. Someone was going to get seriously hurt one day. Or maybe they already had. And Ichigo didn't want to have his career ended over their joint stupidity. And he was fully surprised to realize, as he sat down on the bench, that he didn't really want to bear witness to Grimmjow's unscheduled retirement either.

 

As soon as the game was over, and the coach was done yelling at him, and he most certainly would, Ichigo was heading home to think some things over. And if Grimmjow was still stuck in the hospital tomorrow, (as he assuredly would be) Ichigo would have to pay him a visit, if for no other reason than to settle his already guilty conscience.

 

Ichigo's brows knit together as he rested his chin on the back of his gloved hands while the ice was cleared of the fallen Reaper and his scattered equipment. On top of his concern for the general welfare of his team mate, Ichigo felt the familiar rise of anger towards the bluenet. Grimmjow was a genuine idiot for refusing to get on that stretcher. He could have broken bones and not even be aware of it.

 

Dumb.

 

But of course, Grimmjow would never have the good sense to stay down. Even when his usual poor sense had been knocked out of him.

 

And the guys had let him get up.

 

Ichigo fumed on the bench. He was going to chew them a new one for that. He didn't care if it wasn't his place. They may have been well meaning, but it was just plain stupid putting Grimmjow at risk like that, no matter how stubborn he had been. Ichigo would have brained the bluenet himself if he'd been the team's doctor. He wouldn't have put up with that bullshit.

 

Ichigo stared up at the enormous screen hanging over centre ice and winced as he finally saw the entire replay. All the fight that had been pumping through his system a moment ago dwindled to shame as he realized that he had, in fact, put up with that. He'd just stood there in a daze watching everything happen wrongly in front of him.

 

He hadn't stepped up at all.

 

It wasn't like him. His own father was a doctor, and Ichigo had spent enough time helping out at his father's clinic to know how a patient should be treated, and he was well aware of the injuries that hockey players sustained and the routines that were set in place to minimize further injuries. And he hadn't acted.

 

He pulled his gaze from the images on the screen and hung his head as another shock wave of guilt slammed into him. Just add it to the list.

 


	16. Chapter 16

Ichigo awoke to the glare of the mid-morning sun hitting his face, long ribbons of liquid light cutting a brazen, dusty swath across his room, bending and creeping their way along the rolling landscape of his covers, warming them up, and until now, keeping their contents in a deep sleep.

 

As the bright light turned the insides of his darkened lids into glowing red embers, Ichigo mumbled something to the sun that no one would normally hear him say.

 

It wasn't the sun's fault, though. He had been so exhausted physically and mentally, that by the time he'd turned in last night, he'd forgotten to close the blinds of his bedroom window. And when he reached for the alarm clock that he'd also forgotten to set, and lifted it up to check the time, he groaned in disbelief. The sunbeams had been creeping their way up his bed for hours.

 

Ichigo lay there for a moment. And as his faculties returned, so did the memories of last nights' game. But they didn't just roll in, gentle and soothing like the welcome brush of lapping waves.

 

No. They were right where he'd left them before succumbing to a fitful sleep late last night; smacking him hard and wet across the face. And it stung.

 

Ichigo ground the base of his palms against his eyes and dragged them down over his cheeks, pushing the stubborn vestiges of sleep away. He inhaled a deep sigh before letting it back out. He wondered how he could have slept in so late when he had such important things to do today. It was already more than midway through the morning, and he'd been expecting a call from Kensei as soon as the man knew anything about their injured teammate. He should have called by now.

 

He let his wrist fall across his alarm clock and rest there, tendons straining between fine bones while his fingers felt blindly around the bedside table for his phone.

 

Ah. There is was. A few pressed buttons. A squint. And sure enough, he had several messages. Two of them were from his family. And the other was from Kensei. His empty stomach did a quiet flip as he brought the phone to his ear to listen to the message. A moment later, he replaced his phone on the table, a small frown of determination working its way into his tired but handsome features. Kensei's message had been short and simple, and not very informative at all..

 

“ _Yo, Kurosaki. It's Kensei. Don't tell me you're still in bed? I'm at the hospital. I'm here for a bit, so... text me when you're on your way, and I'll meet you. ...Bye.”_

 

Ichigo sighed long and hard, forearm thrown across his forehead, and after a careful stretch, he rolled out of bed with all the agility of an eighty year old man. He cursed when his feet hit the floor, then limped his way into a hot shower, his pronounced morning erection bobbing along in time with his steps with buoyant indifference to the cool air of his apartment. Ichigo ignored the stiff piece of flesh, it being much less about sex than its presence would suggest. On any other day, he might be inclined to stay in bed and manhandle it into submission, but not today. If left alone, it would sort itself out without his laying hands on it.

 

When he reached the bathroom, Ichigo didn't spare himself more than a passing glance in the mirror. He knew he had a red mark on his forehead from where his helmet had met the partition. And the other marks and bruises needed no inspection. But they _would_ need a touch of concealer.

 

A minute later, he stepped into a scalding shower, hoping the pounding spray would ease his sore muscles and calm his rising nerves, and he didn't emerge until the water had turned lukewarm.

 

Feeling somewhat human again, Ichigo towelled off then replied to Kensei's message. He ran a dryer quickly through his hair then padded back to his room and checked his messages again.

He was supposed to meet Kensei _on the third floor by the main nursing station and to relax because everything was fine._

 

Funny how his stomach disagreed.

 

He threw on a pair of loose, smokey-grey, stone-washed jeans, a dark brown belt with extra length that hung down against his thigh, and a black long-sleeve shirt. His bright orange hair, now clean and dry, stood wild and carefree with its trademark rebellious spikes, adding to his already tall, lean stature. He gave himself a once over before grabbing his keys and his jacket, and finding himself presentable, headed out. By the time he left it was just past noon.

 

When Ichigo arrived on the hospital floor which housed his teammate's room, he hesitated, hanging back against the mirrored wall of the large elevator while other passengers disembarked. But the silver doors seemed to wait for him, and he breathed a resigned sigh. He wasn't the only one to be feeling anxious in a place like this. Everyone was here to see somebody.

 

Ichigo pushed off the wall and slipped between the doors as they closed. He stepped out of the elevator and made his way down the hall, passing by strangers who gave him varying looks of recognition, until he was finally met with a familiar pleasant smile.

 

“Kurosaki, you made it.” Kensei Muguruma sauntered towards him, his finger already climbing to his upturned lips. “Big guy's asleep.”

 

Ichigo brightened a fraction, then nodded and returned what he hoped passed as a genuine smile.

 

“How is he?” he asked. “Did you talk to him?” Ichigo snapped his mouth shut, a bit chagrined when he realized that he'd damn near blurted his questions and let his worry show through, because Kensei's grin faded to a softer smile, and he sobered.

 

“Relax, Kurosaki. He's fine.” Kensei could almost hear Ichigo's breath catch and release as the younger man stepped up to him. “And no. He was awake early this morning, but he's been out cold since I got here.”

 

Ichigo's eyes dropped to the floor as he took the information in. Grimmjow was asleep. And probably not waking up any time soon. Damn. Ichigo had got up this morning feeling somewhat duty-bound but also full of determination, ready to make peace with Grimmjow. But now, suddenly, the feeling was pouring out of his heart and down into his knees at the prospect of having to come back and prepare to face him all over again. And he hadn't even seen him yet.

 

If Kensei noticed that Ichigo had become a bit distracted, he didn't outwardly express it. Instead, he continued to fill the young man in on the bluenet's condition.

 

“He's a little roughed up, but... he'll pull through.” Ichigo's head came up and he nodded. “Anyway, he won't be seeing ice any time soon, but once he finds that out, I'm sure he'll find a way to mend himself at inhuman speeds.” Kensei chuckled. “He always does.”

 

Ichigo tried to conjure a smile but he really didn't see the humour in it yet. Perhaps Kensei could explain that part to him too.

 

“So... how long are they keeping him?” he asked, turning and letting his back come to rest against the wall beside the enforcer's private room.

 

“Well, he's under observation for a mild concussion. He was a little punchy last night and early this morning, but he's doing fine. And if he doesn't show any signs of confusion tonight, they'll discharge him tomorrow.” Ichigo nodded dumbly as he processed the simple information.

 

Kensei leaned forward and gave Ichigo a conspiratory smile.

 

“He's gonna be pissed about them waking him up all night again, though.” The silver-haired man let out an obnoxiously loud laugh, drawing a reluctant but bona-fide smile from Ichigo, and a hushing sound from the nurse who was just entering Grimmjow's room.

 

Still smiling, Kensei signalled to Ichigo with a nod and began to stroll at a snail's pace down the hall as he talked. Ichigo glanced back at the open door, craning his neck as he followed suit, but it was too dark inside to see much of anything as it closed behind the nurse. The young forward turned away and thrust his hands as deep into his jacket pockets as they would go, and with a few hurried steps, caught up with his captain.

 

“If he's sleeping, I should wait until tomorrow and get him at home,” he muttered.

 

“Ah, ah, ahhh.” Kensei's waggling finger was suddenly up in Ichigo's face, forcing his eyes to cross until he growled and swatted it down like a buzzing fly. “You're here now. You should just _stay_ and wait until he wakes up.”

 

“Yeah, but, if he feels like shit, he isn't going to want to see _me_ , and he isn't gonna listen to...”

 

“Doesn’t matter. It would be a hell of a gesture, Ichigo.” Kensei pinned him with a meaningful look as they moved further down the hall, passing several rooms in the process.

 

“Well, that _is_ why I'm here,” he defended, patience suddenly running short, although he wasn't quite sure why.

 

“Really? And where are your flowers?” Kensei stopped and dipped to one side, then the other, mock searching Ichigo for signs of floral decor.

 

“ _Keh.” That_ was why. Ichigo shot a tired look towards the ceiling before he levelled it at Kensei, along with a halfhearted scowl. “Very funny. I don't think Grimmjow's the kind of guy who appreciates flowers, especially from me.”

 

“You're right. Forget flowers.” Kensei turned his sharp grey eyes towards the orangette, the creases at their corners giving them a hint of mischief. “The best gift you can give Grimmjow right now is someone to beat up on when he wakes up. And you're just the man for the job.”

 

Ichigo gave Kensei a look that would have melted lesser men.

 

“Well, he _does_ have a concussion, _Ichigo_ ,” the older man chided. “Blistering headache, nausea, dizziness...”

 

Kensei ignored the answering silence as he rattled off the unpleasant symptoms of a blow to the head.

 

“Oh, _and_ he's got some bruising in his chest and in his shoulder.” He poured on the details while his hands provided the younger man with a clear visual, travelling to his own chest and left shoulder, then trailing upward. “And uhh...” he shrugged, “well his face of course.”

 

Ichigo cringed as he wondered what damage may have been done there. Despite Grimmjow's penchant for wearing his war wounds, the care he took in styling that outrageous head of hair spoke volumes. Grimmjow obviously cared about his looks to some degree. And so did Ichigo. To some degree.

 

They continued their crawl down the corridor. Kensei didn't bother to ask Ichigo why he was especially concerned with the blue-haired enforcer's health when they fought _so_ much. The tightness in the young forward's jawline told him what he needed to know.

 

Instead, he went on to explain their teammate's injuries in detail, no longer trying to rub things in, but being quick and clean.

 

Initially, the doctors had been concerned that Grimmjow may have a partial separation of the collar bone and shoulder blade from his awkward landing, but that had been ruled out. He did have a mild concussion, though, and some deep bruising in his shoulder and chest. But all that was required for him to be back on his feet was a few days of rest. And the blood... had been from where Grimmjow's teeth had bitten through the skin inside his cheek as he'd hit the ice.

 

Kensei watched the young forward absorb the information. Ichigo's relief was almost palpable, and yet he was still as tense as a fly in a room full of spiders.

 

But when Kensei had added his own personal comment on the stitches Grimmjow had received, Ichigo had forgotten his annoyance and guilt and instead outright laughed, hastily covering his mouth with his hand in self preservation when a passing nurse gave him a devastating glare.

 

“He's got a couple a stitches in there.” He winked and leaned into Ichigo's shoulder. “You think if we paid 'em extra they'd do the rest of it too?”

 

It didn't feel right to be making jokes at the bluenet's expense, but Ichigo knew the two men were tight, and that anything derogatory that Kensei might say about Grimmjow would be backed with affection.

 

Satisfied that he'd manage to both annoy and loosen up the young orangette, Kensei shook Ichigo's hand and pulled him in for a quick and loose, one-armed hug. Ichigo wasn't quite prepared for it, but he accepted the gesture nonetheless. It was Kensei's way of saying everything was cool between them. And despite the relief he felt overall, he still must have looked to Kensei like he needed it.

 

And here he thought he'd been holding his clamouring insides together quite well.

 

Ichigo walked slowly back down the hall to room number twenty one with his hands buried inside his jacket pockets. He fingered the chain that held the keys to his car like a rosary. At least now he knew that Grimmjow's injuries hadn't been as severe as everyone had feared. But he wouldn't truly feel better until he'd seen him for himself.

 

**X X X**

 

Ichigo stepped quietly into the room, then stopped in the open doorway, stilled by the sight that was laid out before him.

 

It's not that it wasn't what he was expecting to see. But even with his experience at his father's clinic, he still hadn't quite been prepared for it. Patients off the street, strangers, were one thing, but it was different when it was someone you cared about. And to some degree, that _was_ the word for it.

 

 _Shit_.

 

Ichigo closed his eyes, one fist tightened against his side, blunt nails digging into his palm, while the other still clung to the cold steel knob of the door. Because letting go would mean stepping in. And really, he didn't know what he was stepping into.

 

The Reaper's number six, the feared sexta, lay unconscious... or asleep, Ichigo reminded himself... in a bed tucked away to the left of the door that seemed to have formed some sort of force field which had immobilized Ichigo's feet.

 

Since he didn't feel capable of moving just yet, Ichigo studied the dimly lit room and it's occupant from the doorway, wide brown eyes, bloated from the dark, absorbing every unlit detail of the patient's surroundings that they could, assessing the scene in front of him.

 

After a moment, he felt his lungs relax into a silent exhale. It wasn't that bad, really. It all looked routine, the wires, the lights, the stillness. But, as ill-bred and graceless as he could be much of the time, hell most of the time, it just wasn't right to see the shatterproof enforcer... so alert, so animated... lying in such quiet repose. Especially in a place like this.

 

Ichigo closed his eyes for a moment to avoid the unnatural sight.

 

Grimmjow was all gas, no brakes. But the brakes were hit so hard now, they were smoking. Ichigo wished Kensei hadn't talked him into staying. Tomorrow would have been better. Standing here alone was just.... Ichigo wasn't good at losing things that mattered.

 

Instead he turned his senses towards the simple, steady tone of a heart monitor, sound turned down so low as to be nearly inaudible against the hushed voices and random sounds from the hall behind him.

 

When he opened his eyes again, he resumed his careful study of the room and its contents. The head of the bed had been raised at a low incline, giving Ichigo a slanted view of the right side of Grimmjow's face, his head fallen to the side in his slumber. As his eyes adjusted to the shadows, he could see that this side at least looked alright, unmarred for the most part by bruises and cuts. And as Kensei had stated, he looked to be sleeping, breathing on his own, chest rising in a slow, steady rhythm.

 

The rails were up, he noted, obviously to keep their patient from rolling too far over and tumbling onto the floor. Did that mean he was disoriented? Or was it a good sign, meaning he was active and moving around?

 

He thought he'd feel _better_ once he'd seen that Grimmjow was alive and alright, but Ichigo was suddenly filled with more concern than ever now that he was here. He had so many questions and no one to answer them, so many things to say and no one to listen. Grimmjow looked so vulnerable, so fragile, and it made Ichigo's stomach twist uncomfortably. This right here, this was his fault, and he wanted to make everything alright. But what the hell could he do? Nothing of course. Absolutely nothing.

 

“Dammit,” he whispered.

 

He nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice broke the silence.

 

“Are you going to stand there all day? Come in. Come in. ”

 

Ichigo stepped around the door and let it close behind him.

 

“Don't be afraid. You will not wake him.”

 

A very small woman, skin well worn and body frailed by time, sat on a chair to his right. She smiled up at him. Her voice, crackled with age, yet still gentle and warm, was laden with a thick Russian accent. She spoke slowly, almost lazily, tongue rolling into growls against the back of her throat.

 

“Uh. Hello.” Ichigo swallowed. He had no idea who this elderly woman was, but she had the second-brightest blue eyes he'd ever seen.

 

“It's just _little_ bump on the head.” She waved her hand dismissively, but Ichigo could see the subtle lines of tension set around her mouth. Whatever her relation to the bluenet may be, grandmother perhaps, it seemed more to Ichigo like the face of a worried parent. Yeah, he knew that look. He had one of his own after all.

 

“Few days off,” she continued, still waving her hand in the air, “and he will be fine. He just sleeps now.”

 

“Oh. That's... good news.” Ichigo replied, nodding his support as he caught her eye. He didn't buy it, the way she tried to casually wave it off. She was scared, but she refused to let it show. “So, they're just keeping Grimmjow overnight for observation then?” he probed.

 

“My Grimmjow is tough boy. Mmm? Hard boiled... mmm no... hard _headed_ like his father.” She made a fist and gently rapped it against the side of her own head, a wicked gleam in her eye.

 

Ichigo just couldn't help but smile at her. And she had it right the first time.

 

“Are you his... uh...?” Ichigo exhaled in relief as the old woman - she looked to be in her seventies or eighties - saved him from the social faux pas of guessing her relation. She looked like his grandmother, but one could never be sure of these things. And Ichigo was known for putting his foot deeply in it... on occasion.

 

“I am Grimmjow's mother, Petra Jaegerjaquez.”

 

His mother?

 

“Really?” Ichigo couldn't help but openly glance back and forth between the silent Grimmjow and the elderly woman in the chair. “He's... so young,” he managed finally.

 

 _You're so old..._ is what he wanted to say.

 

“Yes. Yes. I know. Grimmjow was _big_ surprise. I had him when I was fifty six, would you believe?”

 

“Wow.” That would put her in her eighties, Ichigo realized.

 

“Yes. He is _gift_ from God.”

 

“...”

 

Ichigo blinked.

 

_Gift?... From God?_

 

He fought to swallow a shit eating grin and a burst of laughter that he was certain would be “misinterpreted” by the Jaegerjaquez matriarch. And he definitely didn't want to insult her.

 

He knew what she meant. Of course he did. It was just so funny, though. He was pretty sure he'd heard Grimmjow spout the exact same thing about himself on a near constant basis.

 

“It's not possible they said. But, the proof is in the pudding, yes?” She regarded her sleeping son with a proud smile. “He was meant to be. My big blue angel.”

 

_Angel? Oh, please. Stop! She was killing him._

 

Ichigo balled up a fist and used it to cover the wide grin that he couldn't hold back this time around. This was too much.

 

The old woman shook her head and stood slowly from the chair, supporting herself with her hands and stretching her lower back until it audibly cracked.

 

“Ah. Where is my head. You must be Ichigo.” She thrust out her hand, and Ichigo automatically picked it up. She had a firm handshake for such a sweet old lady. “My Grimmjow, he talks about you all thee time.”

 

Ichigo blinked as if a flashbulb had just gone off in his eyes. _What?_

 

“He does?” His voice was quiet and laced with subtle suspicion, and he felt himself straighten, head cocking slightly in disbelief.

 

“All thee time.” She graced him with warm smile.

 

“Huh. Well... uh... all good I hope,” Ichigo laughed nervously and rubbed the back of his head as he felt himself pink slightly across the cheeks at the kind old woman's words.

 

Maybe he should be calling security? She might be crazy. Or she might be telling Ichigo the truth. Either way, it made him uncomfortable, to say the least, to think that Grimmjow talked about him to his mother.

 

Petra Jaegerjaquez smiled as she stepped away from her seat and stopped directly beside Ichigo, her face beaming up at him from several feet below. She placed one wrinkled hand on Ichigo's arm before giving him a small sigh and a gentle nod of her head. She looked up again and answered, lips pursed and eyes nearly hidden beneath furrowed brows.

 

“As good as you are going to get, coming from my Grimmjow.”

 

Ichigo gave a small nod in understanding. So... not good then. But as good as he was going to get. He tilted his head to the other side, genuine curiosity winning out over the growing need to forget this entire conversation.

 

“He really talks about me?” he asked quietly as he studied the woman, searching her features for similarities to the sleeping bluenet. Other than her eye colour, he really didn't see it.

 

“Of course.” The elderly woman raised her hand and gestured at the air. “You are teammates. He says you have big amount of talent, that you will be star player. Then he calls you _list_ of bad names.” She shrugged and pulled a face that said 'what can you do'.

 

“Grimmjow tells me often that he is confused about you. He says he cannot figure out how to work with you, and he doesn't know what to do.”

 

Her head tilted to the side, and she gestured with her shoulders and upright palms, shrugging with each declaration.

 

“He says you get hit, you can't shoot. He protects you, you still can't shoot. So he shoots, and _he_ can't shoot. He says he feels like he is banging head against wall.”

 

Ichigo waited, trying to make sense of the mind altering information. But he wasn't sure that he could. It just seemed so surreal.

 

“I tell you, he has become insufferable. I try to avoid subject now. All thee time, he goes on and on, Ichigo, Ichigo, Ichigo. And now I can see why.” She laughed as she leaned back and made a show of studying him from head to toe. “You have gotten under my boy's skin.”

 

Ichigo felt his eyebrows hit his hairline, and he was sure his eyes nearly detached from their optical nerves and landed on the floor at the old woman's outrageous comment and open look of approval. She clearly had bats in her belfry. Much like her son.

 

“Come again?” he squeaked, the sound of his voice barely breaking the distance between them.

 

“Of course, he would never tell you that would he? Oops...” she squeaked, raising her crooked fingers to her lips before dropping her hand back onto her lap. “I have spilled beans.” She gave a small shrug and grinned mischievously, and Ichigo could see that she still had her own teeth, fangs and all.

 

Oh. Now he saw it.

 

“That will be our little secret, yes?” she continued, still smiling.

 

Ichigo quirked a brow at the woman who was now grinning innocently up at him. Innocent, his ass. This was a sneaky little old lady, obviously with good intentions, but still, sneaky. He kind of had to respect her for it. It hurt though, knowing that it probably wasn't true.

 

“Sure,” he replied, trying to conjure up a small smile of his own and barely succeeding.

 

“Good.” She stood up again, straightened, and patted his arm. “Now. I am going for walk. If I sit any longer, I will pickle.” She gave his arm a quick, hard squeeze, a lot more strength packed into that aged hand than he thought would have been possible.

 

She turned away and stepped up to the door as Ichigo unconsciously rubbed at the now tender spot. Damn. It might even bruise. Ichigo watched the door close behind her in quiet consideration. Well, she'd certainly calmed his nerves initially, but then she'd gone and given him a whole new set of things to think about. Unsettling things.

 

He wasn't sure whether anything Grimmjow's mother had said to him was true. But what if it was? He stood there for a moment, feeling a bit shell shocked by their conversation and the strange turn it had taken.

 

His brain was still trying to deal with the new information when a short, dry cough broke the silence. He started at the sound, heart picking up its rhythm. After all that, he'd nearly forgotten why he was in this room in the first place. Ichigo quietly crossed the room and stepped up to the bed to get a better view of the reclining hockey player, the smooth landscape of the plain white sheets broken into rolling hills by the bulk of his body. Grimmjow was nearly as pale as the sheets that covered the bed.

 

Had he really been asleep, Ichigo wondered? Had he heard any of that conversation? He leaned over the bed to catch a better view of his teammate's eyes. No. Clearly, he hadn't. He was only now beginning to stir. Grimmjow's eyes were fluttering open. And he seemed a little confused. He was definitely just waking up.

 

The younger man's expression softened slightly. Grimmjow almost looked gentle in a moment like this, half asleep, hair tousled and fanned out against the pillow. And the way he frowned in protest... he looked like a sleepy child struggling to wake up.

 

Ichigo's smile turned down into a frown. Anyone who hadn't seen him in action would never know what waking monster lay beneath that innocent beauty.

Forget looking like one. Ichigo was sure Grimmjow climbed into fountains at night and stole the wishes of children.

 

While the bluenet crawled towards consciousness, Ichigo hovered beside him, eyes travelling across broad shoulders that were, oddly, bare. He wasn't wearing a hospital gown. Ichigo wondered if Grimmjow was naked under those sheets. He couldn't imagine Grimmjow letting anyone wrestle him into a hospital gown, injured or not. From the way Grimmjow strolled from the showers to his locker, he seemed like a guy who was happier naked.

 

A small smile crept into the corner of Ichigo's mouth, then faded when something struck him. Even though he'd tried to keep his eyes to himself when they changed, Ichigo had looked up to see Grimmjow buck naked scads of times, but... he never imagined that he would ever see the blue-eyed enforcer in the raw in bed. And though Grimmjow probably wouldn't even care, Ichigo was left feeling a bit of a voyeur, like he always did.

 

Ichigo blinked away the thoughts that he shouldn't be having as the enforcer finally came too.

 

The bluenet sniffed and cleared his throat, coughing several times and wincing for his troubles before his eyes finally started to focus on his surroundings. He grumbled to himself, and Ichigo had to lean in to hear him.

 

“Fuck'n air is dry in here,” he rasped, the beginnings of a dry cough quickly turning to a moistureless, sandpapery hack. “Ah, fuck.”

 

Grimmjow's eyes closed again, and he grimaced as he dragged a hand along the covers, lifting it to his head and pressing his palm against his temple. While his head was making the most noise right now, there wasn't a bone in his body that didn't hurt. The end of last night's game was a blurred, woozy memory. But Grimmjow didn't need to piece it together. He'd seen the hit that had landed him here. And more than anything, more than even Nnoitra, he was pissed at _himself_. Nnoitra never would have gotten the drop on him if he hadn't been so fucking wrapped up with what Kurosaki was doing.

 

Fuck. Damn near the first person he was thinking about when he was waking up with a titanic headache was Ichigo fucking Kurosaki. God dammit, he needed another cat scan, because he may have actually lost some brain matter in that hit.

 

Ichigo winced at the dry coughing, darkened eyes crinkling in sympathy, and he turned and reached for the glass of water that sat untouched on the bedside table.

 

“Here,” he said quietly.

 

The bluenet's hand pulled away from his temple with a start, and he nearly jerked out of his pillow when he realized someone was standing beside him.

 

Ichigo cringed as he watched Grimmjow squint at him through a fog of pain and blurry vision.

 

But azure eyes sharpened in angry recognition the moment they latched onto Ichigo's face.

 

“Fuck,” he mumbled, as he settled himself back down, his head sinking back into the cradling depths of his pillow. He'd knocked the dog-shit out of his head, and it still hurt like a motherfucker. They wouldn't even give him any painkillers yet. They didn't want him doped up while recovering from a mild concussion because it could mask potentially serious symptoms. But now he was wondering if could use some anti-psychotics instead, because he had to be seeing things.

 

Miserable, annoying, orange-haired things.

 

“The fuck are _you_ doing here?” he grated.

 

The unwelcome hallucination snorted back at him before it began to speak.

 

“Nice to see you too, asshole,” Ichigo responded quietly. He glared down at the barbarous patient and wondered if there was perhaps a plug he could pull. “I just came to check on you.”

 

“Hah. Tell me another one,” Grimmjow croaked, the vestiges of sleep still clinging to his features. “You came here ta make sure I kicked the bucket.

 

“Oh, would you just...” he mumbled, exasperated already, but fading out, there being not much point in arguing with the recalcitrant enforcer.

 

“Sorry ta disappoint ya, red head,” Grimmjow kept his weak glare turned up at the orangette, “but 'm gonna live.”

 

Ichigo scowled and thrust the cup over the bluenet. He was tempted just to dump it over him. He wasn't a red head. And it irked him to be called that by a man who's hair looked like a smartie.

 

Ichigo frowned again, more to himself than at Grimmjow. He swore he was beginning to get seasick from the roller coaster of emotions he seemed to feel whenever the bluenet was involved. They'd said how many words to each other? And Ichigo was already ready to throw in the towel. But something about the other man's hoarse voice gave him pause. He found it oddly endearing. Besides, Grimmjow seemed a little punchy. And that just brought him right back around to the reason they were here in the first place.

 

“Just take the damn water,” he muttered.

 

“Hn.” Grimmjow fixed him with a suspicious look before he finally caved in and accepted the cup, tucking the straw between his lips and pulling the water into his mouth like he'd been lost in the dessert for a week.

 

Grimmjow glanced back up at Ichigo, giving him a thorough once over. He let the tip of the straw rest against his bottom lip as he spoke. He couldn't resist making a comment on Ichigo's appearance. The kid had some impressive bruises of his own and they looked pretty fresh. That coverup he'd tried to use wasn't fooling anyone.

 

“You look like hammered shit,” he drawled. His eyelids hung low, showing his boredom, but the timber of his voice betrayed a minute spark of concern. “The fuck happened?”

 

Ichigo blinked, realizing right away that he must had been rubbing his face at some point. Ichigo could have laughed at Grimmjow's comment, though... at the irony. Had the bluenet seen himself in a mirror? He could have laughed, but he didn't. Grimmjow was sharp as a box of crayons at times, but now, even concussed, he was going for the throat. And Ichigo could already guess what stinging point he was going to try to make.

 

The young forward winced and glanced away, then lifted his shoulders as if to shrug off the question. Losing Grimmjow had sucked. He couldn't deny it. But Grimmjow wasn't winning any awards in Ichigo's book by rubbing Ichigo's nose in it.

 

He heaved a deep internal sigh. He came here to apologize. Grimmjow was basically helpless. The least Ichigo could do was give him this one.

 

“Nothing really. Just got into it with some Hollows.”

 

“Hn.” Grimmjow nodded. It wasn't quite a nod of respect, but only because the bluenet refused to let the tiny bud of a feeling blossom. Though groggy, he'd been awake for a little while in the morning, and coherent enough to absorb the hockey news being broadcast on the small flat screen TV in his private room. So, he knew enough, how Ichigo had been targeted for the remainder of the game, and how Ichigo had finally snapped a rod, getting into it hard with Ulquiorra and earning himself an early hall pass to the locker room.

 

“Did we win?” he pushed. He already knew that answer too, but Ichigo didn't know that. Grimmjow just longed to see the look on Ichigo's face, wanted to know that he had felt Grimmjow's absence just a little bit. He returned to sucking on the straw to hide the smug grin that was pulling at the stitches in his mouth as Ichigo shook his head.

 

“Look,” the younger man began, while Grimmjow made love to the straw, gulping down the whole thing as Ichigo spoke. If he didn't say this now, they'd end up arguing, and he'd be walking out of the room after smothering the blue-haired antichrist with a pillow.

 

“I came here to see if you were alright, okay? Because... it was my fault that you took that hit. And I wanted to tell you...” Ichigo sighed and glanced away in discomfort before squaring himself and looking Grimmjow directly in the eye.

 

“I'm sorry that you got hurt.”

 

Ichigo kept his eyes on the prone man, searching his face, waiting for a nod of acceptance, or the faintest sign of forgiveness.

 

Grimmjow stilled, lips still latched onto the straw like a hollow, plasticlifeline.

 

He was speechless actually. And the straw was a great delay tactic while he tried to figure out how to respond to this... apology? Kurosaki's voice was soft, sincere, and for a moment it seemed to bleed through the dense haze of anger that came with being around the orangette.

 

The bluenet considered the man at his bedside, the only person he knew of, aside from his ma, to show up so far to see him. They hated each other, yet here he was.

 

Grimmjow frowned slightly. That was the problem with Kurosaki. He was an odd mix of heroic good guy - to school for cool - and a defiant, scene stealing know-it-all. Everything about the younger man rifled Grimmjow's nerves. And yet... here he was, all subdued and sincere and sticky and vulnerable in front of Grimmjow, asking for his divine forgiveness for something that it hadn't even occurred to him he should hold against him in the first place. Though he probably should.

 

It was odd though. He kind of wanted to land all the blame on Ichigo, say he was the reason for Grimmjow's situation, but... he couldn't do it. And _that_ sent a fresh, queasy little hiccup racing through his stomach.

 

Maybe it was the concussion. Or maybe he just wanted to get rid of those deep brown doe eyes that the orangette was pointing at him, but Grimmjow was feeling just magnanimous enough to let the other man off the hook. This time. It didn't really mean that much in the scheme of things anyway. It was like putting a band-aid on a gaping chest wound. There wasn't anything he could think of that was going to put and end to their mutual hate-on.

 

Ichigo shifted from one foot to the other. Grimmjow was just staring at him.

 

“Okay,” the bluenet finally drawled after eventually letting the straw go. He handed the empty cup back to Ichigo, as if testing his sincerity. Ichigo frowned, but he took the cup from Grimmjow's right hand, the one that didn't have a sharp needle jammed into its veins and an IV line dangling from it.

 

“Okay?” he parroted, one apricot brow drifting upwards.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“So... we're cool?” he prodded, replacing the empty cup onto the table.

 

Grimmjow lifted his shoulders into the edge of the pillow in a halfhearted shrug, the slightest wince creasing his azure eyes. He glanced up.

 

“As cool as we ever are.”

 

Ichigo snorted softly.

 

“That's what I was afraid you'd say.”

 

The orange haired man reached over and caught the back of a chair from the other side of the table and dragged it up to the bed. He sat down hard, like the load he was baring on his shoulders held a physical weight and he needed to rest.

 

“Look, Grimmjow. The coach asked us to work out our issues. Obviously, we can't be fighting each other while we're on the same team.”

 

“Doesn't bother me any.”

 

Ichigo chose not to bite at the familiar carrot that Grimmjow was dangling. Staying calm and logical was the only course of action that would see this conversation end well. Besides, Grimmjow was still having difficulty and struggling to focus. He could see it in the glassiness of his eyes. Even this short visit was already draining him. But Ichigo had a few more things to take care of before Grimmjow could rest.

 

“I want to see our team make the playoffs this year,” he stated. “Don't _you_?” The reapers were losing their standing game by game, point by point. The way things were going, they were never going to make it.

 

“Course I do,” Grimmjow snarled. “Fucking stupid ques...”

 

“I _don't_ want to fight with you any more,” he said seriously. Well actually, a dark and determined part of him did want to fight, to climb onto the bed right now, straddle Grimmjow, and choke the stubborn out of him. But they just couldn't keep it up.

 

Grimmjow looked like he had other ideas. He narrowed ice blue eyes, squeezing them into frozen slivers of irritation, holding them on Ichigo for moment, before releasing them, the change in his expression telling Ichigo he had come to some sort of conclusion. Grimmjow's face was completely sober, contemplative, concise.

 

“You can say all the pretty words you want, Kurosaki,” he rumbled, “but you know as well as I do that we can't play together.” Grimmjow's free hand curled into a fist, though it stayed rested on his chest. “Every time we get out there you piss me the fuck off and make me wanna beat your ass into centre ice.”

 

Ichigo stiffened in defence and felt his lip twitch upwards, reaching with ardour towards a dangerous snarl.

 

“Ya? Well, sometimes the feeling's pretty damn mutual,” he ground out between tightened incisors. “But,” he said with a slight nod that for a moment left him looking down his nose at the bluenet before he levelled his gaze, “we both know it doesn't matter how much we hate each other. This is our job, and we have to find a way to get along.”

 

Grimmjow didn't appear to have any words for Ichigo's declaration. Instead he seemed content to continue charging up the blue ion guns that were aimed in Ichigo's direction. Ichigo took up the challenge with as much good grace as he could muster, and continued.

 

“So, since we don't have any games for the next week...”

 

“What?” Both blue eyebrows shot up in confusion. “But I'm good to go tomorrow!”

 

Ichigo gave Grimmjow a bland look.

 

The statement was nearly a whine and a definite exaggeration. There was something almost, but not quite, cute about it, and Ichigo rolled his eyes as he shook his head from side to side.

 

“No. You're not,” Ichigo stated, leaning forward to regain the bluenet's full attention. Grimmjow needed to get a clue. “You're concussed.”

 

Grimmjow's lip shot up, one defiant fang somehow gleaming in the dark.

 

“Che... barely...”

 

Kensei's description had been accurate. Ichigo had seen a deep bruise blooming across Grimmjow's shoulder, running down the top of his chest and disappearing beneath the blankets. He could only imagine the sickly pallet of colors that the bluenet would already be sporting just beneath his chest, where Nnoitra's shoulder had caught him hardest. And when Grimmjow had turned his face towards Ichigo, he'd seen the ugly bruise that was already painting a vivid trail from his left temple, across his cheekbone, and down to his jaw. He had a cut on his nose as well, the edges red and swollen. Both of his lips were split near the edges of the side he'd landed on. To top it off, the bruises from his fight with Ichigo hadn't completely faded yet. He had bruises on top of bruises, and they all belonged to Ichigo.

 

“And we're basically both on suspension, dumb ass. Again. Three games a piece.”

 

“What?!” Grimmjow looked positively stricken before his eyes fell and his face pinched into a scowl deep enough to aggravate the headache he was trying to ignore.

 

“Coach said with the way we're both playing right now, they're better off without us.”

 

“Fuck.” If it was possible, Grimmjow scowled harder. This was the very thing he feared most. That everything he'd worked for, the space he'd carved out for himself in life, meant zip fuck all to anyone.

 

“You think he was going to let us off again after last time?” Ichigo snorted. He was relentless, and his laugh was bitter. “No way. He's pissed. ...And I hate to say it, but he's probably not far off.”

 

Ichigo's post game dressing-down hadn't been what he'd expected. The coach hadn't even bothered to yell.

 

Ichigo noticed the bluenet's fists whiten as they curled into the sheets, and he looked a little paler than before. Ichigo's presence obviously wasn't doing much for his partner's mental well being, but he had a message to deliver, so Grimmjow would just have to suck it up and be stressed out for the time being. Actually, the coach was being harder on Ichigo this time around. Grimmjow was officially on concussion-watch anyway, so his suspension was redundant. By the time he was ready to play, a week, maybe two, his time would be over.

 

“But we didn't _do_ anything,” the bluenet groused. The sour note of indignation gave Ichigo a sudden and clear mental image of a blue-haired kid in fifth grade left standing in the hallway lamenting the rocky foundations of his unfair persecution to the very person he'd been accused of roughing up. Ichigo gave his head a small mental shake and refocused his gaze on the upset enforcer.

 

“Yeah, we did,” Ichigo countered bluntly, eyes cast to his knees in concentration. “We screwed around and let our personal issues affect our play, like we always do. And we lost the game.”

 

Ichigo looked up, and Grimmjow saw something he'd seen before flare in those russet eyes that made him want to pull the sheets up over his head in denial.

 

“And you got hurt.”

 

Even though Ichigo meant to lay it out for the bluenet, he felt his own shoulders pull down in defeat. There really wasn't any point in denying it anymore. The pair of them were single handedly undermining everything their team had worked so hard for. And everything _they'd_ both worked for.

 

“Whatever,” Grimmjow grumbled as he shrugged his shoulders, his gaze running towards the window and its closed blinds. He hated it when Ichigo fussed about him being injured. Idiot had brought it up more than once, and it was something Grimmjow had tried not to think on too much, lest it cause him to form a soft spot for the orangette. He recognized that they both had issues, but Ichigo's final point was irrelevant. To Ichigo this was about him being hurt? Che. He got hurt all the time. He wasn't a hypocrite. Live by the sword; die by the sword. What was the fucking difference this time?

 

Ichigo eye's darkened as he watched the bluenet pull away. He was either sulking over his suspension, or brushing off his injury. Or both. Ichigo wasn't sure which one it was or wasn't, but he willed himself not to comment. It would only incite another one of their infamous arguments.

 

And what he was about to say was going to fly like a wingless goose anyway.

 

“Coach said we either learn to work together, or one of us leaves the team.”

 

Ichigo heard the small inhale of breath, and watched Grimmjow stiffen and blink in disbelief, though the bedridden man still childishly refused to look his way. There was a short but heavy silence in the room before Ichigo continued, as if pressing the shiny red button and dropping a large nuclear device on them both wasn't enough.

 

“And he doesn't give a damn which one of us it is.”

 

“Che.” Grimmjow turned back and fixed Ichigo with a dark look.

 

“Coach's words. Not mine,” Ichigo declared. He folded his arms across his chest as if defending against a blast of frigid air as blue eyes as cold as the tundra narrowed dangerously and bore into his. Grimmjow's upper lip pulled back into a challenging snarl.

 

“Then you can pack yer shit and _get_ ,” he growled, voice rising in anger.

 

“You wish, jackass.” Ichigo returned the sentiment with equal vehemence and a dark scowl of his own.

 

“I ain't going _anywhere,_ ” Grimmjow snapped back.

 

“Neither am I.” Fingers tightened into fists as he leaned forward.

 

It was all more snarls than words.

 

And then it was silent again, neither man capable of speaking without all out war breaking out inside the hospital room

 

Ichigo took a deep breath, unlooping his arms and ploughing his fingers through his awkward orange spikes while he forced himself to calm down. He had nearly erupted out of his seat at the bluenet's declaration **.** Grimmjow wanting him to leave had just somehow cut right to the bone. But that was normal, wasn't it. Reason and composure was a slippery eel whenever he was around the bluenet.

 

He heaved an internal sigh as he calmed back down. Well... it wasn't like he _expected_ Grimmjow to be all hearts and flowers....

 

“Anyway,” he began, fixing his vision on the metal bar at the end of the bed. It was a safer place to look, much less likely that a steel bar could piss him off. Besides, an inanimate steel bar was much more pleasant to converse with. But...he had promised himself that was done avoiding.

 

Ichigo dragged his eyes back over the covers towards the source of his ire and was slightly surprised that the sorry excuse of a man in front of him hadn't already jumped in with some derogatory comment.

 

It appeared they were _both_ fighting to keep from fighting. Grimmjow was just watching him, face unreadable, and Ichigo nearly forgot what he had wanted to say next. Grimmjow actually seemed curious enough to wait to hear what Ichigo had to say. This was new.

 

“Obviously, neither one of us wants to quit being a Soul Reaper.”

 

“Hn.”

 

Ichigo shifted in his seat. That was about as close to an agreeable remark that he fathomed he would get right about now.

 

“So, I... propose,” Ichigo dragged the word out, hesitating. He was aware that Grimmjow was going to find some way to be annoyed with the word, and even less impressed with the suggestion itself, “...that we spend some of this time together off the ice and try to find some sort of.. I don't know... common ground.”

 

It came out as more of a question, and it was a really difficult thing to say. Ichigo wanted to spend just as much time with the bluenet as Grimmjow did with him.

 

Another long moment of silence filled the room, and Ichigo found himself fighting to hold the other man's gaze.

 

It was an equally difficult thing to do. The tension he felt around him was becoming more than he could bare. The ball was in Grimmjow's court now. And rejection hurt... even if you didn't like someone.

 

Grimmjow snorted loudly.

 

“I think it's gonna take a little more than a week to turn this train wreck around, don't you?”

 

Ichigo sighed, amazed at how exhausted he was feeling all of a sudden.

 

“We don't have much of a choice here, Grimmjow.”

 

“Hn. Fine. Just give me tomorrow off would ya? I'm gonna need all my strength to pull this off.”

 

Honey brown eyes narrowed, but a smirk crept into the corner of his mouth. Grimmjow had just agreed to Ichigo's proposal. It felt like he'd just signed a contract with the devil, but now that they'd come to some sort of odd harmony, he realized part of him almost kind of liked the challenge that Grimmjow gave him, even if it meant he was being an annoying pain in the ass.

 

“Well, that's a fantastic attitude,” he replied blandly. The chair scraped across the floor as Ichigo stood up and straightened himself, smoothing the creases out of his shirt in two short swipes of his hand, and ducking his head to hide the insistent smirk that now tugged at his lips.

 

“Hn. Best yer gonna get.”

 

Ichigo glanced up at that, azure and brown coming together, both of them sharpened and a little wary, but... there was something... a trick of the light maybe... that could almost have been taken for a smile. Ichigo thought, perhaps, that he saw something sparkle slightly behind those unbelievably blue eyes, even while the disinterested expression stayed firmly entrenched on the enforcer's face. Ichigo shrugged mentally. If it _was_ a smile, it was probably just a side affect from the concussion.

 

He turned and strode towards the door, then stopped, looking back at the bluenet with a loud smirk as he pulled the door open. Grimmjow had gotten in the last word, but Ichigo knew he couldn't leave things like that. He couldn't let Grimmjow get away with a single inch.

 

“Yeah, I know. That's what your mom said,” he purred. Ichigo watched as Grimmjow's azure eyes popped wide open and flew to his face.

 

“What?!” Grimmjow lurched forward, then grimaced, hissing in pain as he fell back against the sheets.

 

He'd been half way intent on following after Kurosaki before his body rebelled and he was forced to lie back down. When the fuck had Kurosaki spoken to his mother? And what the fuck had she told him? And where the fuck was a bucket when you needed one? The room was listing a little and his stomach was promising a messy fallout if he didn't stay down. But fuck it. He sucked in a quick, deep breath through his nose and bellowed at the retreating Ichigo.

 

“WHAT THE FU- ”

 

Ichigo smiled broadly and chuckled to himself as the door to Grimmjow's room quietly clicked shut **.**

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

“You can't... be serious.”

 

Exactly two days later the social experiment of a lifetime had begun, and already Ichigo was regretting it.

 

After doing a very obvious double take, the younger man looked pointedly at the bluenet's chosen attire, irritation quickly replacing the calm facade that he had worked so very damn hard to construct before their meet up.

 

Since the moment Ichigo had woken up in bed this morning, the bluenet had been on his mind. And Ichigo was filled with an anxious mix of revulsion and excitement. The revulsion he got. The excitement though... he had to think about that. He wanted to chalk it up to good old fashion anxiety, the same feeling he got before a game, because he knew the outcome was important. Though they weren't under the game time glare of several thousand pairs of eyes, they were still in effect being watched. Their respective careers were riding on this.

 

It was logical. Ichigo had every reason to feel nervous. But eventually, he managed to come up with an even more plausible explanation. Meeting up with the blue eyed buffoon and getting along would be nothing short of a spiritual challenge. A Herculean task. If Ichigo could find a way to rise above whatever choppy, sludge infested waters surrounded the two of them and bring Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez around to his way of thinking, then he could do just about damn well anything. He'd be an honorary fuckin' superhero.

 

It was amazing just how hard a superhero had to work, he'd discovered.

 

Ever since he'd shaken the cobwebs loose, crawled from his warm bed into a hot shower, and rubbed away his formidable morning erection with remarkable and unusual ease, Ichigo had been concentrating to the point of damn near meditating on ways to keep himself from letting the bluenet get to him.

 

And the first Goddamn thing the blue-haired man-child does is... THIS _._

 

Ichigo was barely halfway out of his car, and all of his efforts to convince himself that they were going to make some headway and get along like reasonable people had already sputtered out of existence.

 

Grimmjow stood with his head cocked to one side as he leaned against his car feigning innocence, the smirk he wore erasing all doubt about the true degree of his guilt.

 

“Whut?” the bluenet drawled, shoulders shrugging and sky blue irises sparkling in the light of the sun.

 

Ichigo glared at the enforcer, eyes scanning back and forth across the tight material that clung to his chest and abs before darting up to meet a face that was insufferably smug.

 

Grimmjow just stared straight back, smirking as he watched Ichigo struggle to maintain his composure. The enforcer waited, gloved hands half hidden beneath the rim of his open jacket, thumbs snagged in the belt loops of his most abused jeans. They buckled a little across the crotch under the pressure of his hands. He let Ichigo stare at him, pleased with the subtle changes in his expression as Ichigo's eyes darted from one part of his body to another, delving for a curious moment as far down as his package, before finally flying up and landing on his eyes.

 

He'd taken his sunglasses off. He wanted Ichigo to catch every nuance. Every look of pleasure, and every bruise that surrounded it. He owed Kurosaki for that cowardly jab in the hospital. Fucker had baited Grimmjow then nearly bolted from the room. He still had no idea what had been said. His ma was a locked vault when she had half a mind to be. But no matter. Even in the state Grimmjow had been in, Kurosaki had still been afraid to go up against him.

 

His throat vibrated with a soft chuckle. Grimmjow was going to enjoy this.

 

He knew he shouldn't be so quick to try and irritate the orangette, since they were doing this so they could learn to - air quote - get along. But the temptation when he opened his t-shirt drawer that morning had been just too great to resist.

 

Ichigo felt a growl build in the back of his throat as he considered his partner's chosen attire, as clear a sign as any of impending disaster on a day that was important to both of them.

 

In large, bold letters, scrawled across his too-small black t-shirt were the words, “You can't spell slaughter without laughter”.

 

It was magnificent in its gaudiness. The word slaughter was even printed in red, dripping like blood and tilted on an angle. Eye catching.

 

Ichigo expelled a wavering, mile deep sigh and rested his arm on the open door of his car. The fact that Grimmjow had gone out of his way to unzip his winter jacket, braving the bitter cold of the January day just to show off his t-shirt, sent a further surge of annoyance through the orangette.

 

“Just get in,” he said flatly, dark gaze not leaving Grimmjow's.

 

Grimmjow ignored the frigid tone which might have caused some to stumble. Grimmjow could handle the cold as much as he could his partner's chilly looks **.** Ichigo was once again back to holding in his hostilities. Fair enough. As much as it made him want to throw him up against his own car and goad him into another all out brawl, Grimmjow could do the same. He could be cool. He wasn't about to be outdone.

 

Ichigo watched as the smarmy bluenet closed the short distance between them with a casual saunter. He tried is best to unpin his sour scowl, determined not to let himself appear defeated in any way. He already had plenty to be annoyed about. One, Grimmjow's shirt was an atrocity. Two, he'd taken his glasses off so Ichigo wouldn't miss the cocky looks, not to mention the battle scars that Grimmjow wanted him to see.

 

And if Grimmjow sauntered any slower, Ichigo would be at number ten long before the bluenet made it to his car.

 

What he realized, though, as Grimmjow practically oozed across the empty parking space between their cars and stopped in front of him, was that he'd never seen Grimmjow's eyes up close under natural light before. They'd spent all their travelling time avoiding each other. But Ichigo couldn't avoid his eyes now. They glittered like fractured blue crystal in the sunlight. For just blue, they were so insanely colourful, so insanely... loud. He really was a beautiful creature, when his mouth wasn't moving. Huh.

 

Grimmjow had shown up at their chosen meeting place, the quiet end of a large box store parking lot, a few minutes early, on the premise that the sooner they started the day, the sooner they could get away from each other. He'd driven that short distance, even though he'd been advised not to. But it was Ichigo's car they would be taking, and that was a pretty big concession as far as Grimmjow was concerned.

 

The meeting place lay in relatively neutral territory, about half way between their respective apartments. Neither of them had wanted to meet at the place where they lived. The idea of the other man seeing their personal space was just repugnant. Not to mention downright creepy.

 

So, this was how it was going to be, Ichigo thought. He'd come here with about as much enthusiasm as a man bending over for a prostate exam, and Grimmjow was going to make sure neither of them enjoyed a single minute of their little misadventure into male bonding. Fine. If the shithead was going to actively undermine their progress, then Ichigo would be just as much of a prick.

 

No.

 

Dammit. No.

 

He wanted to stay with the Soul Reapers. He'd waited a long time to get called up to the nationals and this blue-haired freak wasn't going to ruin his Goddamn golden opportunity. So help him, Ichigo was going to swallow his own tongue if he had to, if that's what it took to keep the peace.

 

Besides, Grimmjow looked like shit, what with the bruises from his mishap now fully formed and highly colourful. The intended effect of Grimmjow as a psychopathic brawler was damn near perfected by the spectacular bruising running down the side of his face. A mix of ugly, yellow-purple stain ran down his left side. It reached from the top of his temple to the edge of his cheekbone. And it had spread quite nicely into his left eye, changing color while bleeding along his lower eyelashes and creating the effect of teal eyeliner.

 

Ichigo chuckled to himself and noticed Grimmjow frown. How could he stay mad at him when he looked so beaten up? Let him have his silly shirt. Ichigo could deal with whatever the bluenet threw at him.

 

**X X X**

 

Shoot him in the face.

 

It would be easier.

 

They had barely made it a half hour into their “play date” before they'd both decided to throw in the towel.

 

They'd spent almost every minute of that time verbally scratching and clawing each other into shreds. It had been a miracle that the words hadn't turned into shoving and fists. In the every-day away from the rink, out in public, it didn't seem appropriate to “drop 'em”, but it was damn tempting. In fact, the one and only thing the two men would have agreed on, was that they had both shown a remarkable degree of restraint.

 

Since Grimmjow was taking painkillers for his deep tissue bruises, and still suffering from a mild but distracting headache, they had taken Ichigo's car for the day. But not before Grimmjow had eyed his car up with overt scepticism, raising a wary eyebrow and making a show of inspecting the older four door sedan before entering it. Ichigo had bitten his tongue and left the lot before he realized they didn't even know where they were going. By the time they headed back towards the parking lot where Grimmjow's car waited, it had taken every ounce of will Ichigo could muster to keep from veering them off the road and careening them both into certain death just to end the torment.

 

The real problems had begun the minute Ichigo drove out of the parking lot. He'd asked the bluenet where he wanted to go. That was all it took to begin their mutual descent into misery.

 

Grimmjow's reaction was the start of it. What did Ichigo mean, where did he want to go?

 

“This was your idea, and you didn't even come here with a plan?” he chastised, voice brimming with derision.

 

“What the hell?” Ichigo squawked. “I didn't know what you'd be up for today. And I didn't think you’d want me making decisions for you.” Amazing. Grimmjow's mother must have been standing up to him for twenty five years, and yet, Ichigo found five minutes a bit of a challenge.

 

There was a short silence before Grimmjow answered. Ichigo took it as a sign that Grimmjow saw his reasoning, and he fought back the urge to smirk as he waited at a light.

 

“So, make a suggestion then,” the bluenet finally grunted **.**

 

So, Ichigo did.

 

“We could go for coffee. There's a place just up the street from...”

 

“Don't like coffee.”

 

“Uh- Well, you don't _have_ to have _coffee_ ,” _Jerk_. “They _have_ other _things_. Get yourself a tea or something...”

 

“Don't like boiled twigs. And that's basically the same suggestion.”

 

“Of course it is! It's....” Ichigo's explosive reply dissolved into a chest heaving sigh that hissed through his teeth, the sound it produced not so far off from the spark and crackle of a dwindling fuse. He already felt the telltale prickling rising up the back of his neck, but he supposed they had to start somewhere. There weren't that many things they could do with Grimmjow's condition being what it was. The enforcer was supposed to take it easy and keep himself out of stressful situations. If they were going to... hang out... they would have to do something quiet and relaxing.

 

“Fine. What about... a movie?”

 

“Now, _that's_ a stupid idea,” Grimmjow scoffed.

 

“Oy! What's wrong with that?” Ichigo's right hand was up and off the steering wheel, gesturing in the air before slapping back down against the cool leather. Grimmjow watched the hand with one eye, half expecting that Ichigo was going to hit him. But his own hands stayed on his lap while Ichigo went off.

 

“It's a perfectly good...”

 

“Well, it kinda defeats the whole point, don't it?”

 

Except for a muttered curse that the other didn't quite catch, Ichigo didn't respond.

 

“Although I gotta admit,” the bluenet purred “I do like the idea of not talking to you for two hours.” Grimmjow couldn't resist throwing the snide comment in. Anything to see Kurosaki as miserable as Grimmjow.

 

“Keh,” Ichigo snorted, a deep scowl ploughing it's way between his eyes. The thought of being trapped in a seat next to Grimmjow in a darkened theatre, trying to share an armrest... it was the stuff of nightmares. It would be just like this, sitting next to each other inside Ichigo's car, only... closer. And the thought of being that close to Grimmjow in the dark made Ichigo... antsy. In fact, even though he was warm enough, he felt a small shiver run down the skin of his neck and disappear beneath his jacket.

 

Grimmjow was right. It was a stupid idea.

 

“Can't argue that,” he finally grit out from between teeth that were clenched tighter than a mosquito's ass. Was Grimmjow really such an jerk that he couldn't please just throw Ichigo a bone here? Ichigo was trying, and Grimmjow was giving him exactly diddly squat in return. A thought occurred to him as he switched lanes to make a turn. Was this just regular Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez attitude, or was he getting Ichigo back for the other day?

 

Another city block passed them by before Ichigo was able to think rationally enough for another outing idea to come to mind. Until then, most of his brain power had been focused on constructing a device that would vaporize his passenger without harming his delicate car.

 

“Well...” he mumbled. “What about shopping?” Ichigo's eyes widened as he realized what he'd just gone and said. And he wanted to bang his head against the steering wheel.

 

“No... wait...” _Dammit!_ Why did he have to go and say that? They were supposed to be jocks. Tough guys. And Grimmjow had proven himself, without a doubt, the ultimate epitome of that. Ichigo tensed further as he drove. He already knew what was coming.

 

“Shopping?” his passenger parroted.

 

There was a lengthy pause, Grimmjow letting the time and the contempt in his voice settle into Ichigo's bones before he continued.

 

“I don't _like_ shopping. I shop because I need to _buy_ something,” he stated coolly, and slowly, every word carefully enunciated and free of slang, as if he were talking to a small child, or... a very... stupid... person.

 

“And right now, there is nothing I _need_ to buy. But, if you want to go pick up a purse, I guess we can do that.”

 

Ichigo's grip on the wheel tightened for a moment, knuckles turning the off color of spilt milk.

 

“No,” he grumbled back. “That actually sounds like a good idea. Let's go buy a purse. Then we can put your makeup in it.”

 

The retort was met with blistering silence.

 

Grimmjow turned and stared angry holes into the side of Ichigo's head, but he didn't say anything. He had nothing but scalding hatred for this man right now. He didn't even feel capable without yelling to point out that Ichigo was the one who wore makeup. The whole reason they were even here was because of Grimmjow's injury, and he was sure he didn't really need to tell Ichigo that _that_ was a low blow.

 

Grimmjow sunk a little lower into his seat, strong fingers gripping his knee, lest they find their way across the car and meet with the side of Ichigo's skull.

 

Instead, Grimmjow aimed a predatory stare at Ichigo, eyes stalking their way down along the long vulnerable curves of his neck. A surge of heat pressed against his chest, and Grimmjow considered reaching across the car and wrapping his clenching fingers around that neck then squeezing until Ichigo's eyes dulled and he finally quit fighting.

 

He blinked, azure eyes distant and filled with dark indiscretion that would have been alarming to see... had anyone been looking.

 

Grimmjow tilted his head. He could do that, yes. But it would be awkward from this position. Besides, if they didn’t die in a fiery crash first, Grimmjow would have to go through the trouble of switching positions, dragging the heavy orangette into the passenger side. (And he remembered just how heavy Kurosaki was from their time tangled up on the ice.) Then Grimmjow would have to drive Ichigo home and wait for him to regain consciousness. He would freeze in this weather if left alone in his car. It really was much too complicated and a definite inconvenience.

 

Grimmjow grunted. Since when did Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez spend any amount of time considering the logistics of hurting someone or their subsequent well being?

 

He continued to glower at the other man while he drove, but after a moment, the bluenet turned away, the world beyond the confined space serving as a nice distraction.

 

Eventually, he heard Ichigo sigh.

 

“Sorry.”

 

One blue eyebrow twitched upwards, the only obvious change in Grimmjow's expression as he glared through the windshield. He was slightly surprised to hear the apology. And stiff though it was, it sounded sincere. He was also a bit startled to find that such a small word coming from _that_ person had managed to knock his anger back down to manageable levels.

 

“Hn.”

 

The sound of soft clicking was positively earth shattering inside the quiet car as Ichigo flicked the turn signal on and made a left turn onto a busy road, his mind focused on the guttural response coming from his passenger as much as on his driving. It wasn't really clear to Ichigo whether or not that was an _I accept your apology_ , hn, or just an, _I heard you, now fuck off_ , hn. But he was leaning towards the latter after several minutes of driving in silence.

 

Grimmjow said nothing as Ichigo manoeuvred the car through the city streets, still hoping that something would catch their eye. They needed to find something that Grimmjow could do that was slow paced. He was only two days from the hospital, and he wasn't allowed to do anything stressful. Ichigo wondered if this outing would fall under that category. Sure felt like it to him. Much as he didn't look forward to ice time with the sexta, and as much as he'd like to slow the car down and tell Grimmjow to tuck and roll, Ichigo didn't want to make his situation any worse. It would likely be at least a week before he was cleared to play again.

 

In the meantime, Ichigo was convinced his passenger had become mute. He'd never heard less noise out of the vociferous bluenet than he was hearing right now. He didn't even know Grimmjow was capable of sustained silence for this amount of time. Okay, that wasn't fair. Grimmjow wasn't nearly as talkative as say, Shinji, or Renji. He was just so much louder and crasser that it just seemed like he had more to say. Or maybe, Ichigo just listened more to what came out of the blue-eyed devil's mouth. Nah. That didn't sound right at all.

 

He passed several small shops that could have proved moderately entertaining without any signal from his passenger. He still wasn't sure if the silence in the car represented peace or just a temporary cease fire. The tension was still there, thick and alive, but at least it had settled into that familiar _something_ they were both used to.

 

Grimmjow's thoughts were not so complacent. He wondered what the hell had possessed him to agree to coming out with Kurosaki when he'd felt the way he had this morning. Grimmjow was bruised and sore, his head ached, and his chest pulled sharply with nearly every movement, even despite the mild dose of pain killers he'd been allowed to take. He didn't normally like taking medications, but he'd felt rough first thing in the morning. The pills did take the edge off, though. And under normal circumstances he could have lived with that, but not today. He was stiff, sore, tired, and frankly grumpy as shit.

 

In all honesty, Ichigo hadn't done a single thing to him to deserve Grimmjow's stormy demeanour. It was just easy to take it out on Kurosaki. He should have stayed at home and relaxed on the couch. He'd actually made an effort to follow his doctor's orders and had done that for a full two days after being released. And frankly he'd had enough of it. As much as he loathed this man, a few hours out of the house, playing with Kurosaki, was actually preferable. At least, that had been his thinking before now.

 

The car rolled to a stop at an intersection, breaks giving off a shrill noise as Ichigo applied them. For a brief moment, thoughts of their feud became empty background noise to the young forward, and Ichigo let a small sigh escape. Time for new brake pads.

 

“Ah, damn.” Time for new everything. It wasn't that he wasn't getting paid well for his first year. It was that he'd just bought a small condo apartment in a very nice area, and he wanted to pay off his dad's mortgage and his clinic bills, and he really wanted to cover his sister's college expenses in full. A new car was next on the list but he'd been thinking next fall, not next week. Sure, he could just slap it on credit, but Ichigo hated the idea of any of his hard earned cash going towards interest payments. He preferred to pay for things up front if he could. Anything left over would be his to share with the people he cared about.

 

It was that moment that Grimmjow chose to pull down the visor flap on his side of the car and use the mirror... the one that used to be there, anyway. There was a disgruntled snort and the snap of the visor being flipped back up.

 

“Why you even driving an old piece 'a shit like this anyway?” the bluenet grumbled. “Don't they pay you enough?”

 

Ichigo's jaw clenched and unclenched.

 

“I'm saving for something important,” he bit out. “And it's none of your business.”

 

“Che. Touchy.” Grimmjow shrugged and turned away to rest his elbow on the window frame and his chin on his fist, watching his breath spread out across the glass. He actually wanted an answer, but he knew when _not_ to poke into other people's business, so he wasn't going to push it. It was a genuine surprise to the bluenet that Ichigo had even offered him that much.

 

“Did you think of anything you want to do yet?” Ichigo didn't bother to look over as he snapped the question with enough venom to bring Grimmjow's icy gaze back onto him.

 

“No.”

 

“Are you even trying?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“Keh. Well you've got to pick _something_. I'm not just gonna drive us around in circles all frigging afternoon.” That was not how Ichigo had hoped the day would go, although the concept felt familiar.

 

“I don't _gotta_ pick nothin',” Grimmjow crowed back. His lip curled into a derisive half sneer, and he watched with satisfaction as Ichigo tensed up. The orangette hated Grimmjow's penchant for slang when he got pissy. Funny though, how Grimmjow seemed to know just what Ichigo liked and disliked. The thought made him want to push it a little further.

 

“And what if I don' wanna choose'? Huh?” he taunted.

 

“It would be really nice,” Ichigo began, his words quiet but clipped, “if you'd just choose so we can get out of the car.”

 

Grimmjow's expression grew darker. There was that calm holier-than-thou facade again, the one he wanted to pierce through until he could reach in and yank out the scrapper inside. But then, that guy pissed him off too. Well, whatever. He shifted in his seat, arm leaning against the window frame so he could turn a bit more towards his partner.

 

“Maybe drivin' 'round wit' you is what I _wanna_ do.” Silence. “Beats sittin' on my ass at home, since I ain't gettin' ta play _hockey_.” He enjoyed the low growl now resonating from Ichigo's throat. “Besides, ain't it usually ladies' choice on a first date?”

 

Ichigo sputtered for a moment, but didn't even deign to look in Grimmjow's direction. He spoke when he felt he could keep his voice calm enough to be understood.

 

“If you want to sit in my car and trash talk, then this conversation becomes about trades.”

 

“Che. Gonna be your ass, not mine.”

 

“In your wet dreams, asshole.”

 

“The wetter the better, princess.”

 

“Nghh...”

 

“Way I see it, at least if I don't score, I'm still worth something to the team.”

 

Ichigo took his eyes off the road long enough to shoot a truly menacing look in Grimmjow's direction, face turning crimson with barely suppressed anger. When he spoke again, his voice had an edge of mania to it.

 

“Grimmjow, I swear... Just pick something you'd like to do. I don't give a shit what it is.”

 

One more comment, and Ichigo was going to have a conniption. Grimmjow could just feel it.

 

“Fine. I'd like to not _die_ in a death trap today.”

 

Ichigo sucked in an angry breath, but after that his lips stayed squeezed together.

 

The orangette was trying so hard to hold it together that Grimmjow almost felt contrite enough to wince at his own dig. Grimmjow wasn't _tryying_ to be a total prick. He figured he'd gotten Ichigo back for his hospital stunt by now. It was just that at this particular moment his life royally sucked.

 

Never mind the fact that he hadn’t even jacked off in three days because all the pressure kept making the wrong head throb, he just honestly couldn't think of anything he wanted to do in the shape he was in, let alone with Ichigo. He needed to be at his best to handle himself around the orangette. But here he was, doing exactly the thing he definitely didn't want to be doing, sitting in Ichigo's car with Ichigo in it. Trapped inside his space was more like it. Stuck staring at the man with hair like a brush fire. As if he didn't already feel generally gross, he was out of his element, on Ichigo's turf. And being chauffeured by his enemy, feeling like he was being babysat by the younger man, was yet another blow to his already fragile ego.

 

And for two big guys, this was one small car. It was making his skin itch just being so close. But that wasn't his greatest concern as the minutes passed, especially with the way Ichigo was beginning to drive. At first, in between verbal exchanges, Grimmjow found himself watching the way the other man's palm wrapped around the clutch, and how long fingers worked against the worn out plastic each time he shifted gears. But that had lost its appeal after a few blocks. Ichigo wasn't paying enough attention to the road, and Grimmjow had found himself shifting in his seat each time they changed lanes or came to a stop.

 

Grimmjow's foot reached out for an imaginary break as they rushed towards a red light. For the first time in a long time, he figuratively bit his tongue as they came to an abrupt stop. He could tell he'd pushed the young forward towards some kind of breaking point, which was unnerving, knowing full well that Ichigo held both their lives in his hands. He could see that the orangette's eye was twitching slightly, and he didn't need any more injuries today. So he let them sit for two uncomfortably long minutes while they waited for the light to set them free.

 

As the traffic stopped passing in front of them, Grimmjow studied the side of the orangette's fierce expression. Ichigo hadn't said anything else since Grimmjow's last comment. In fact he hadn't moved a muscle. And they were still sitting at a light which had changed to green awhile ago.

 

“Whenever you're ready,” Grimmjow drawled.

 

His grip on the sill of the door tightened as the car took off with enough force to jerk him back against his seat.

 

That was pretty much the end of it for both of them. Ichigo gripped the steering wheel and glared straight ahead on their journey back, while Grimmjow set fire to the world through the open window of the car. The wind, all the while, was busy throwing his blue hair into chaos, but he made no move to fix it. It was the middle of winter but neither man cared. They had both generated far too much heat inside the car, and the icy blast was both a relief and a distraction.

 

When they finally made it back to the parking lot, the interior of the car was as silent as a cemetery. The car had skidded to a haphazard halt after hitting a patch of black ice, and it had come dangerously close to Grimmjow's baby. The blue-haired man had cursed Ichigo out, making reference to a man who's father's existence was as highly debatable as Ichigo's good sense.

 

Once Grimmjow had extracted himself from the car and slammed the passenger side door with much more force than was necessary, Ichigo had stomped on the gas pedal and peeled out of the lot without looking back.

 

Which was a shame, because if he had, it would have made his day.

 

Because he would have bore witness to the bluenet kicking his keys across the parking lot in an outburst fit for a preschooler, and then stomping them into the pavement after dropping them for the third time as he fought with the lock of his car. Normally, it would have occurred to the bluenet long before then to use the electronic button attached to his key chain to open the doors to his car. But after what seemed like forty eight hours of hell, he was just as agitated, and thinking just as clearly as Ichigo.

 

The day had been tantamount to torture.

 

While Grimmjow stood in the parking lot and contemplated taking the bus to the nearest watering hole, or better yet, shooting range, Ichigo sped down the nearby two lane highway, passing every car in sight. That blue-haired, blue-eyed abusive prick had tested Ichigo's moral restraint and he'd been barely an inch away from tearing a strip off the guy, injured or not. How had he thought this would ever be a good idea?

 

Ten white knuckled minutes later, and Ichigo felt like taking his car through the car wash with all four doors wrenched wide open just to rid himself of that ridiculously rich and unique scent that lingered thick and heavy inside his small sedan. It was distracting and infuriating.

 

Even when Grimmjow wasn't around, he still had a way of leaving his mark on Ichigo's space. And he couldn't get him off.

 


	18. Chapter 18

Ichigo let a full day go by before making contact with the blue-haired alien again. And he needed every minute of it to fully cool off.

 

But a little hissing and spitting wasn't going to deter Ichigo from his mission. He was going to do his best to pick his battles with the ornery bluenet. He'd always been decisive as a youth, knowing what he wanted, and without any complaint, doing what he needed to do to achieve his goals. Hockey had always been a priority, and with the full support of his family, he'd proven himself and gotten where he needed to be.

 

But this time, he was alone. This... fracture.. was between him and Grimmjow. And they were the only two that could mend it. It ran deeper than hockey for Ichigo, though. He could admit to himself at least that he genuinely wanted Grimmjow to respect him, to like him, to trust him. Ichigo knew the bluenet was capable of being charming and friendly. Regardless of his animalistic good looks, how else would he have had so many women crawling into his bed? Grimmjow had regular conversations with his other teammates that didn’t end in bickering or a bloodbath, and Ichigo found himself wondering what it would feel like to have a kind word or a pat on the shoulder from the enforcer, or... something more personal.

 

It took everything he had to pick that phone up and dial that number a second time.

 

It was easy enough to remember, though.

 

156-1506

 

Easy. And eerie. And creepy. It was beginning to seem like everywhere he turned, something reminded him of Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez, or linked them together in some supernatural way. His car still smelled of him, like some expensive car freshener, and Ichigo was already growing oddly fond of it.

 

He had a growing feeling that fate was sitting back on her high and mighty ass, clutching her stomach and laughing hysterically at the both of them.

 

Well, Ichigo didn't believe that fate was something that was set in stone. He believed that for the most part you made your own fate, shaped the course of your own destiny. Even when the world seemed to have other plans, you always had choices. You had to stay the course for the things you really wanted, fight for your dreams.

 

You bet your sweet ass that Ichigo had dreams, like enjoying a successful career in the NHL, taking care of his family and watching it grow, and finding someone to share it all with. He wasn't going to let his problems with the bluenet alter his promising future.

 

The curved edge of the kitchen counter top pressed into the small of Ichigo's back as he stared blankly through the glass of the stained wood cabinets that housed the set of dishes his family had given him as a housewarming gift. Here in his apartment, Ichigo was surrounded by things that let him know how much he was cared about, how fondly he was thought of. And yet, he didn't feel particularly warm right now.

 

In fact, he didn't remember eating it, but he seemed to have a cold lump of clay sitting in the bottom of his stomach as he waited with the phone against his ear. It was bound there by the knowledge that the person he was calling wouldn't be happy to hear from him. It would be so nice to hear a pleasant tone instead of that ever-present threatening rumble.

 

After five long rings, the owner of the cursed phone number finally picked up, and Ichigo waited for the inevitable “hello” that wouldn't be.

 

He knew the bluenet had call display. And he had probably been off searching for a hockey stick or a shotgun while the phone buzzed or rung or exploded into a girlish orgasm, or did whatever perverse thing Grimmjow had set it to do upon receiving a call from Ichigo.

 

“What. The fuck. Do you. Want?”

 

He felt the stone in his stomach sink a little deeper. Ichigo lowered the phone and gave it a hearty one-fingered salute before he forced himself to answer the bluenet with as much abject cheerfulness as he could summon without inducing vomiting.

 

“Morning,” he chirped. “I missed you too sweet pea. ”

 

A momentary silence had Ichigo leaning forward in dark anticipation. It was always funny how a cheery demeanor offered at the just right moment could invariably insight anger in others.

 

“I hate you.”

 

Ichigo leaned back, eyebrows lowering, fingers of one hand drumming against the counter top behind him.

 

“ _That's_ not very nice,” Ichigo snorted. “And here I am worrying about you.”

 

There was a pause, a pregnant space that promised fallout, like the moment before a stress relieving belch from a grumbling volcano.

 

“Blow me, Kurosaki! I ain't gonna play this game! This is the stupidest fucking idea I've ever....”

 

“You think this is what I wanna be doing?” There was a small grunt of indignant surprise from the other end of the line. “Trading insults with you and wasting my time with a guy who doesn't care?” Ichigo got a stranglehold on his voice just as it began to rise in anger. He needed to keep his cool, keep whatever emotion that was out of his voice. He was pacing the kitchen without realizing it, phone in one hand, and a fistful of hair in the other. “This is not my idea of a good time. But we've already been through this. The coach said...”

 

“Quite _telling_ me what the god damn coach said!” Grimmjow nearly screamed into the phone, his short tempered fit of exasperation making his voice crack like he'd just hit puberty.

 

“I fucking don't need you telling me shit! And you know what? I'd rather be flipping fuckin' burgers at some greasy fuckin' fast food chain at minimum fuckin' wage than spend another fuckin' minute with _you_!”

 

While Grimmjow screamed sweet words of devotion at him through the earpiece, Ichigo moved with restless energy, bare feet traversing the cool linoleum floor and quickly finding their way to the edge of his couch. If the phone weren't between them, Ichigo was sure his face would have been covered with large quantities of Grimmjow's spit.

 

His chest tightened as the bluenet's words sunk in, and the orangette smiled darkly. The tirade was still going as he sat down with a soft plop, then sank back against the cushions. He slipped his free arm behind his head as he waited a few heartbeats for the bluenet to continue.

 

He had to admit, that had been rather impressive, the number of times that Grimmjow had so expertly managed to wedge _that_ word into one sentence.

 

When Grimmjow didn't appear to have any follow up, Ichigo smiled to himself, then pulled his lips into a formidable pout. He could picture that one greenish-blue vein on the bluenet's temple throbbing.

 

Ichigo just couldn't help himself. A day of cooling off or meditating would make no difference. Grimmjow just made it so easy to forget that he had made a promise to himself to play nice. It seemed that being an asshole was actually a contagious condition.

 

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” he finally asked with feigned innocence and puckered lips.

 

Grimmjow stood in the kitchen of his apartment, mouth open, and stared at the phone in his hand with a mixture disbelief and growing realization, the plastic casing of his phone creaking in protest from the crushing force being exerted upon the hapless device. The muscles around one azure eye twitched, while an upper lip thinned and rose like a curtain in front of a chorus line of sharp, white teeth.

 

His headache was back full force. Somehow, the cocky little shit had turned the tables on him. Grimmjow had been the one who was going to have some fun with this and make Kurosaki suffer. And he had, to a point. But it seemed that once again, Kurosaki had the puck and wouldn't let it go. Grimmjow's game plan had been hijacked.

 

He grimaced. He was a wreck around the orangette, and the only way to keep his own composure would be to keep Kurosaki off balance instead.

 

Furious cobalt blue eyes narrowed into razor blades, and a shark-like grin began to form and grow.

 

Ichigo was beginning to think they had miraculously lost their digital connection when a rumbling tenor finally drifted into his ear, a voice filled with such ominous calm that it made Ichigo's spine roll then straighten.

 

“Alright, Kurosaki. Bring it on.”

 

**X X X**

 

It didn't take long for Ichigo's temper to fray.

 

It had started when Grimmjow had showed up. Ichigo had been locking his car in the parking lot when he heard the other man approaching from behind. He didn't have to turn around to know who's car was idling behind him. The lyrics from _Maroon 5's, Moves Like Jagger_ that blared through the open windows of the purring sports car made it all too clear.

 

**Take me by the tongue and I'll know you**

**Kiss me 'til you're drunk and I'll show you**

 

**All the moves like Jagger**

**I've got the moves like Jagger**

**I've got the moves like Jagger**

 

**I don't need to try to control you**

**Look into my eyes and I'll own you**

 

**I've got the moves like Jagger**

**I've got the moves like Jagger**

**I've got the moves like Jagger**

 

The orangette knew the song was probably loud enough to exacerbate the enforcer's concussion, and he knew that Grimmjow wouldn't care. Not if his antics got Ichigo's attention, and not if it pissed him off, which it did. It was all about getting a reaction from Ichigo. And damned if it didn't work every time.

 

Ichigo had stared back at the man who swaggered towards him, with his fly-boy sunglasses and his _get a load of me_ hair. It didn't matter that the younger man had done so with the most disaffected look he could summon, the telling smirk that perched on the edge of the bluenet's lips was enough to start Ichigo's blood curdling.

 

He knew it was his own fault this time, though. He shouldn't have taunted the bluenet on the phone. But the minute Grimmjow had snapped at him, Ichigo's wounded inner demon had risen to the surface with a sick sort of glee. And now he was paying the price.

 

Ichigo had needed to meditate for nearly an hour to recapture his inner good guy after their brief phone conversation. But he'd regained his resolve since their pleasant chat that morning, and he was hell bent on breaking through Grimmjow's attitude and connecting with him in some way. But as the minutes rolled by he was becoming convinced that by the end of the day, he would be in the back of a police car in handcuffs for having murdered the foul mouthed bastard with the blunt ends of his own mirrored sunglasses.

 

Their meet-up hadn't lasted more than an hour, and the moments that weren't filled with insults and posturing instead left them in strangled silence. They were supposed to be learning about each other, but the only things they had discovered were the quickest routes to flip each others' switches.

 

Ichigo had figured out at least one useful thing from their last meet up; a concussed, bored Grimmjow was not a good situation. So this time, Ichigo had picked something they could do ahead of time, having realized that malls and excessively loud theater movies were far too much stimuli when one was trying to heal one's brain, after having said brain bounced off the interior of one's skull.

 

He'd decided to take them to the local aquarium, and Grimmjow had accepted the idea without complaint. It was dark, low key, relaxing, and since it was the middle of the week during the day, it was relatively quiet when they arrived. And this time, they'd skipped Ichigo's car and met at the aquarium. Ichigo was two for two on good ideas, but the final hurdle was a big one. Actually hanging out together.

 

When he'd arrived and they'd paid their entrance fees, the young forward had tried to call a truce. But the enforcer wasn't interested in truces. As sure as can be, Grimmjow was being im-fucking-possible, and Ichigo was once again beginning to lose his calm facade, piece by aggravated piece.

 

Nothing he said seemed to be good enough for the other man. If Ichigo said white, Grimmjow said black.

 

He had never felt so defeated. It was like trying to scale barbed wire bare handed. No matter what footing he found, or what approach he tried, the bluenet seemed hell bent on sticking him and drawing blood.

 

Despite the unpleasant company, Ichigo had managed to hold it together by the skin of his teeth and keep them from brawling through most of their self guided tour. But things had really begun to fall apart when they'd entered the shark cave, a darkened series of corridors which seemed abandoned by all but the carnivorous aquatic life and the two of them.

 

With almost no one around to hear them, Grimmjow had seen fit to turn an innocent question into something that left Ichigo feeling like he really was trapped at the bottom of a predatory sea.

 

“So, have you ever been here before?” he'd asked stiffly, still trying to forget how angry he was at what Grimmjow had done to him in the jellyfish exhibit.

 

Laughing after sneaking a photo of him while he was nose to glass with one of the large luminescent orange jellyfish was annoying. But offering to email the photo to a group of young women who had recognized the two players was just plain offside. Ichigo had put a fast end to that, but he'd still had to sign the girl's entrance tickets with a feigned smile. The only bright side was that Grimmjow had gotten sucked into the fray as well.

 

At least, it would have been if the cocky enforcer hadn't made such an erotic show out of enjoying the attention so much for Ichigo's benefit. The enforcer went so far as to lift the hem of his shirt for the boldest of the girls, allowing her to run the tips of her fingers along the xylophone-esque ridges of his abs. Ichigo didn't know what Grimmjow thought he was playing at, but something about the virile display had worked, and now Ichigo was in a right foul mood.

 

When no answer was forth coming, Ichigo took a deep breath of recirculated air and shifted his gaze onto the man standing close enough that a whisper might carry, but far enough that he couldn't be reached with a punch. He noticed that. That the enforcer had kept his distance the entire trip.

 

Ichigo frowned. He hadn't whispered though, and the bluenet still hadn't reacted.

 

Grimmjow was following the slow, side to side movements of a nurse shark, seemingly transfixed as it glided past the thick glass barrier with an expression as dead-eyed and primitive as the man watching it.

 

“Well?” Ichigo huffed, and Grimmjow answered as if he hadn't been lost in the undersea world at all.

 

“Of course,” he snorted, eyes all but glowing in the eerie light. “Chicks are always draggin' me to places like this thinking it's... romantic.” The last word slid languidly off his tongue with the suspicious ease of a well oiled proposition.

 

Ichigo's eyes automatically launched an unimpressed scowl at the bluenet who was by then smirking at him.

 

“Kiss my ass,” he mumbled, giving the bluenet his shoulder as he trained his gaze back through the window and the creatures behind it.

 

“Dark corners are good for quickies,” Grimmjow purred, sounding a little bit closer than he had a moment ago and drawing Ichigo's begrudged attention back his way. He gave Ichigo a meaningful look which was clear as midday, even in the darkened corridor. And frighteningly suggestive. Ichigo was used to that shit from the guys in the locker room, but, coming from Grimmjow...

 

And Grimmjow _knew it_ too. Ichigo grit his teeth, deciding not to take the bait, and moved to the next exhibit.

 

They'd made it most of the way through the exhibit before Ichigo's composure had finally crumbled. When the conversation had turned to their chosen profession, and Grimmjow had started asking questions in a critical tone that was like nails on a chalkboard to the orangette, it had signaled the beginning of the end for their ill-fated outing. And their visit to the aquarium ended in what Ichigo could hardly describe as his shining moment in debating.

 

“What thing?” Ichigo grumbled.

 

“That thing ya do with your hockey stick. I've heard ya whispering to it when you think nobody's listening. It's fuckin' weird.”

 

“I do not....” Ichigo growled. Damn bluenet and his supersonic hearing.

 

“Hah! Yes you do! Don't even try to deny it!” Grimmjow was actually pointing a finger at Ichigo. The orangette's eyes widened. Grimmjow was almost wild, he was so excited that he'd finally got Ichigo in a situation he couldn’t talk his way out of.

 

“Keh.” Ichigo's anger reddened face was visible even in the dim light. “You wouldn't understand if I explained it.” Ichigo folded his arms and turned back to glare into the watery world behind the glass walls.  
  
He felt the air move as Grimmjow stepped towards him, and he jumped as a palm hit the window next to his head, fingers splayed against the glass. Ichigo turned to find Grimmjow scowling darkly at him from a few inches away.

 

“You callin' me stupid?” the enforcer growled. Maybe Grimmjow didn't have quirks like that, but Kurosaki could damn well try and explain it to him when he'd asked so nicely.

 

“Of course not!” Ichigo snapped in response, but he took a small, careful step back, to where the air wasn't quite so charged. He had the feeling he shouldn't be making any sudden moves. Didn't mean he was going to change his mind, though.  
  
“It's personal,” he stated. Grimmjow's lip started to curl, and one long finger circled towards the ground they were standing on as he growled back, hackles raised dog-like.  
  
“Well our little playtime here is _supposed_ to be personal, ain't it?” Ichigo grit his teeth, their eyes locked.  
  
“Get it through your head, Grimmjow. It's none of your business.”  
  
The enforcer just watched as Ichigo turned and started to walk away. He was at a loss. And it irked him so much, it surprised him. But after a moment of staring at his back, Grimmjow dogged after him.  
  
Ichigo felt himself cringe as the bluenet raised his voice, the rough tenor seeming to echo and fill the hall around him.  
  
“Are you always an idiot? Or is it just when I'm around?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Seriously. You keep sayin' that. It's none of my business. How are we supposed to get to know each other if everything's none of my fuckin' business?”

 

Ichigo felt his face flush deeper, and he shot daggers back towards the bluenet as he legged it past the next exhibit window, hands stuffed inside his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched.

 

“Would you lower your voice,” he hissed over his shoulder, nodding towards the couple they'd just passed who were staring at them with looks of amusement. As soon as the couple were out of obvious earshot, Ichigo growled. “Since when have you ever wanted to get to know each other?”

 

“Since now,” Grimmjow crooned, less irritated that he was a moment ago, now that Ichigo was paying attention to him again.

 

“Bullshit,” he snorted. “You're only asking so you can be a jerk about it.” His head snapped forward, and he picked up the pace. “That's why I'm not gonna tell you!”

 

“Fine. You're right. I don't give a shit.” Grimmjow was still right behind him. He could catch up if he wanted to, but this felt much more like a chase with Ichigo on the run.

 

“Good!” The ingenious retort drifted back to the bluenet, who smirked. He was well aware that it was just a superstitious act. They all had them. Renji was always talking to his goalpost after all. But Kurosaki's avoidance had piqued his interest. He knew by now that the kid wasn't going to answer him. But hey, they'd come here to solve their hockey issues hadn't they? So, why not get down to business?

 

“It doesn't matter how many conversations you have with that no good piece of wood of yours,” he crowed. “It's pointless if you're gonna keep on sucking ass.”

 

“Get off my case.” Ichigo picked up his pace, trying to put distance between himself and that blue-haired blustering windbag. He turned a corner, bringing them out of the dark undersea world and into the partially sunlit lobby, Grimmjow trailing behind him like a noisy magnet.

 

“Common, Kurosaki.” Grimmjow was getting angry, though he didn't know what was spurring it on really. Everything was just bubbling up. And he suddenly just wanted answers, a solution to their problems. They were spinning into the vortex again, but he didn't want to stop. He couldn't. Ichigo had to have the answers. If he'd just cough it up.

 

“What the fuck happened to you?”

 

“The same thing that happened to you,” the younger man retorted, not bothering to look back. Ichigo yanked furiously on the zipper of his jacket as he trekked towards the visitors' station at the centre of the large, two story hall. Beyond that lay the doorway, the one that led them out from behind the looking glass and back to the real world.

 

“Well shit, Kurosaki. What the fuck does that mean?” Grimmjow snarled, exasperated by the orangette's evasive answers. And he was getting tired of staring at Ichigo's back.

 

“It means we both have the same problem!” Ichigo yelled back, the side of his face profiled by the sunlit backdrop. “You!”

 

“Is that so?” Grimmjow scoffed, as he killed the last bit of space between them, steps measured as if he were sizing him up. “You already admitted that it's your fault too. You can't keep blaming me for everything!”

 

Ichigo spun so fast that his shoes squeaked against the polished concrete floor. And Grimmjow, having been nearly on top of him, almost tripped trying to save himself from a jarring collision. He stopped himself with a palm against Ichigo's chest, which he withdrew with a silent grunt, even the contact against the orangette's jacket enough to send a jolt through his arm. He was too worked up to really consider it, and the less he thought about it the better. Less thinking was always better where Kurosaki was concerned.

 

“I'm not blaming you for _everything_.” Ichigo bristled. “But I do _blame_ you! You're at least... “ Ichigo looked everywhere but at Grimmjow, as if the answers were going to fall from the walls of the aquarium, “...half the reason I can't score!” That wasn't quite true. Ichigo couldn't decide which, but he was either being generous or outright lying just to get Grimmjow to back off. Grimmjow was _all_ of the reason.

 

Grimmjow's brows furrowed and he made a sharp, derogatory sound in the back of his throat. This was the same shit the kid had been spouting at him all along, and he was fuckin' sick of it.

 

“That's a load of crap, Kurosaki,” he argued, raising a finger and gesturing as if to hit Ichigo in the centre of the chest with it. “You were scorin' just fine when we started playin'.”

 

“Well, now I can't, goddammit!” Ichigo fumed, pulse thumping against the skin of his neck.

 

Grimmjow stepped forward, breathing as hard as his counterpart, erasing that last little bit of space before he barked down at the orangette. His temple was throbbing, and his heart was racing at their proximity, his psyche suddenly balanced on the razors' edge between aggression and lust, choking back on the impulse to grab him by his jacket collar and steal the words from right off his tongue.

 

“Why the fuck not?” Grimmjow snarled, azure eyes flashing with a heat that had Ichigo glaring right back up into those devastating eyes and nearly shouting as he sputtered.

 

“Because I can't play with an idiot like you when you're always so busy hating my guts!”

 

Grimmjow's face went blank for a split second before its former fire rekindled.

 

“Uhm, sirs?” A hesitant voice slipped into their argument.

 

“ **WHAT**?” Two heads snapped around as they responded in tandem, faces scarlet with frustration.

 

“I'm going to have to ask you to leave,” the man asked almost apologetically. It was a fairly redundant request. The two men had already been heading towards the exit anyway. But apparently they needed a last little nudge to make it all the way out the door.

 

The double doors to the aquarium burst open, and a fuming orange-haired man stormed through them, an equally pissed off bluenet hot on his heels.

 

“That's _stupid!_ ” Grimmjow snarled.

 

“ _You're_ stupid!” Ichigo snapped, the end of his rope now quite out of reach as he hoofed it across the parking lot towards his car.

 

Grimmjow winced as he came to an abrupt stop at the bottom of the steps and watched Ichigo retreat, eyes shielded by his hand from the too bright sun. He didn't know what had caused the orangette to grow a vagina like that, but he knew he needed to back off. He'd probably done enough damage to set them back at least a month. Strangely, he wasn't even proud of it.

 

Ichigo wrenched open the door to his car, and stopped, suddenly aware of the silence and the crisp winter air around him, and the stifling presence that had lifted. He pulled the fresh air into his lungs and expelled it, trying to vent the toxic emotions. He was relieved when he turned to see Grimmjow heading in the opposite direction, stalking back towards the doors. Relieved and disappointed.

 

**X X X**

 

He couldn't explain what it was that propelled him forward. But he couldn't deny to himself that it was more than just his career that drew him back again and again to thoughts of the surely enforcer.

 

Ichigo got up the next day feeling oddly hollow and choked, yet somehow still bound by the same laboured termination to make a break in the barnacled haul of their relationship. He was beginning to wonder about himself though, how he felt so torn between wanting to avoid Grimmjow and wanting to confront him. It felt like his emotions were caught between the agitators of a washing machine. And then it got worse.

 

Ichigo grumbled to himself as he worked his way through his apartment, clad in his favourite grey sweatpants, socks, and little else. It was six in the morning and he was wide awake, sifting through mail and magazines, picking up clothes that had fallen from the peaks of the hamper, and finally stripping the soiled sheets from his bed.

 

He'd had a very wet dream. It sucked that he couldn't even remember it. She must have been hot as hell.

 

Ichigo slammed the lid to the washing machine, rinsed a cloth from the kitchen, and dropped himself onto his sofa.

 

Who was he kidding. He remembered enough to know that she wasn't hot. He remembered enough to know that he'd been in the locker room, its walls made of glass with shimmering blue light the only thing illuminating the darkened room. He'd been alone he thought, until someone had come up from behind and put him in a firm but gentle neck lock. Grimmjow. Ichigo hadn't been able to move, even to turn, but he knew the enforcer was bloodied from fighting and hungry for more. But then things got weirder. Ichigo realized he was stark naked. And without any words between them, Grimmjow had reached through the darkness and stroked him off as waves of shimmering blue light danced across their skin.

 

Ichigo had woken up just as he erupted beneath the sheets, groaning one moment. Confused the next.

 

The dream made no sense.

 

He wanted to get along, not get it on.

 

And who was he kidding. God, Ichigo had loved it, all that power, that animal side, the fierce attention turned so gently onto him in a way that made him feel wanted, admired, worshipped...

 

But that would have to stay his secret.

 

He was doubly frustrated now. He had hoped perhaps yesterday would be the second one in their quest for a new beginning. But both attempts had been an utter failure. Everything between them always seemed to be about winning. Who would back down. Who was strongest. Who would be the first to lose it.

 

Whether Ichigo had intended it or not, they had locked horns from the first moment they met, and after all these weeks, they still sat in that same awkward embrace.

 

There was no way they were going to be able to smooth the friction between them.

 

Ichigo pulled the damp towel from his eyes and retrieved his cell from the coffee table. The answer was obvious.

 

They needed lubricant.


	19. Chapter 19

**Lit: Completely Miserable**

 

**Nothing to share  
Why should I care if your near me  
Give up all of my plans but who needs them  
When you mean everything**

**  
I love the things that we should fear  
I'm not afraid of being here   
So much the same  
You make me helpless alone**

**  
Yeah, yeah..You make me come  
Yeah, yeah..You make me complete  
Yeah, yeah..You make me completely miserable **

 

 

“Explain to me why I'm here again? As a babysitter?”

 

A pair of brown bottles landed on the weathered wooden table between the two men with an asynchronous clunk. And the younger of the duo huffed his exasperation before he remembered to give a polite nod to their server.

 

“A mediator,” Ichigo corrected testily.

 

Kensei had been ribbing him with merciless abandon for the past ten minutes, ever since he'd met up with him in the lot outside. Though he was expecting it, the non stop teasing was beginning to wear thin.

 

But yeah. Babysitter. That _was_ the word for it.

 

The winter-haired man sitting across from him looked dryly amused as he turned up the rim of his sleeve to check his watch. Ichigo waited for him to say something. But instead he picked up the sweat beaded bottle and took a long draw from it. Then he held it up and signalled to the waitress.

 

The girl, Ichigo noted, was busy flirting with the older man, making a show out of wiping down one of the tables nearby. She nodded back at him and smiled brightly, standing up with a noticeable bounce then winding her way through the half empty tables of the quiet sports bar to fetch yet another beverage for the two Soul Reapers.

 

Kensei Muguruma followed the small, sideways motion of young, nomadic hips, the girl's flawless curved skin barely covered by a short plaid skirt. He stared for a long moment in rapt appreciation at the tanned legs that disappeared beneath the belt-sized garment, before redirecting the same look towards a frowning Kurosaki Ichigo.

 

“Babysitters get paid well these days.” Kensei grinned, then as if in afterthought, cocked an eyebrow and squinted at Ichigo through a sceptical eye. “I'm not tucking you in, though.”

 

Inside his own head, Ichigo sagged and expelled the sigh of the truly desperate before he began to berate the older man, a task which by now he knew was pointless. It wasn't going to stop him, though. With the way he felt, he needed to let off a little steam _now_ or risk being a total jerk to Grimmjow again.

 

He was edgy and nervous about tonight, not only because things had gone so _so_ well for them thus far, but because now he had discovered other reasons to care about their relationship. Grimmjow had awakened something in him, that was for damn sure. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about it since yesterday morning. And in the hours he'd spent putting the pieces together, Ichigo had come to at least one laughable yet incontrovertible conclusion. That these feelings the dream had given him weren't as new as he'd originally thought. He could see it now. Now that the fog of denial had been blown away by the rearing of his own subconscious desires.

 

Didn't mean he was enthusiastic about it, though. Never mind that it was a guy. Liking someone who loathed him? If these feelings ran as deep as he thought they did, he was setting himself up for the worst kind of hurt.

 

“Kensei, give it a rest for a minute, would you?” he started, leaning in and trying to keep his voice low, even as the pace of his rant picked up. “This is hard enough without you dumping all over me, alright? You're here because you're Grimmjow's friend, and you said you'd help. But so far, all you've done is make fun of me.” Ichigo's scowl turned into a look of critical disbelief. “And are you seriously ordering another beer _already_?” he huffed, slouching back against his seat. “You just _got_ that one.”

 

Kensei's shoulders shook as he laughed quietly. The young man in front of him was a scowling and fidgeting mess. A bundle of nerves. But as important as it was that this meeting go well, Kensei still couldn't help but find it hilarious. Next to that waitress's imagined skirt, it was the highlight of his day so far. And the evening promised to be very interesting, if not a bit of a chore.

 

As if to emphasize the mountain they collectively faced, Ichigo looked exceptionally well put together tonight. Like he'd put his all into it. No detail spared before battle. To Kensei's trained eye, his crisp, white, long sleeve v-neck and slick black vest, both of which looked suspiciously fresh off the rack, were a clean contrast to the battered dime-store talisman chain resting in the space between his collar bone.

 

From his chats with Ichigo, Kensei knew the rookie possessed an altruistic generous side for the people he was closest to, but when it came to himself... the kid was so tight, he squeaked. But a new shirt and the strong suggestion of cologne spoke of the effort he'd put into his appearance. Like he was on an interview. Or a date.

 

It certainly looked like a date, the way Ichigo was sweating on the other side the rectangular table. But that wasn't all. His left leg seemed to have a mind of its own, and it was jack-hammering away like a strung out junkie. He watched Ichigo hiss as his knee finally ricocheted off the underside of the table. The leg stilled just long enough for the obvious flair of pain to subside before it started up again into its rhythmic bounce.

 

Kensei smiled behind his upturned beer. The kid could certainly use some loosening up, and Grimmjow was just the prick to do it.

 

He took a moment to admire the kid. Despite Ichigo's humble attitude towards the finer things, he still managed to look damned good. Next to Grimmjow, he was arguably the best looking guy on the team. Kensei studied the younger man's face as he frowned back at him. His scrapes and bruises from his pre-Christmas tryst with the enforcer had pretty much healed over. And there was nothing new there to suggest they'd come to blows again. So, that was a giant plus.

 

But it was the scars he couldn't see that were the root of their troubles, and his main concern. An almighty challenge if there ever was one.

 

“C'mon Ichigo,” he chided. “I'm just having some fun with you. And you can't blame me one bit. I mean seriously. You're two grown men, and you can't even compartmentalize your issues. The way you two get along...” He shook his head sadly, then chuckled and lifted his drink as Ichigo began to look offended. “It's like watching two drunk chicks go at it in a bar fight... Entertaining as hell,” he grinned around the stem of his beer, “but so pointless.”

 

He chugged back his lager, eyes hooded, while using his free hand to make the universal hand signal for a cat fight in progress.

 

Ichigo scowled back at Kensei in protest. It was most certainly _not_ like _that_.

 

“And it's for Grimmjow,” Kensei added, wiggling the bottle in his hand and letting out a small belch. “He'll be thirsty too you know.”

 

Brown eyes darkened, disapproving.

 

“You know he can't have alcohol.”

 

“You worry about him,” Kensei mused. Ichigo flinched. “No. It's commendable.”

 

“It's just common sense.”

 

Kensei nodded towards his young student for the evening.

 

“If you wanna get in his good graces, you should know he appreciates it when people think of him.”

 

Ichigo scowl sharpened. _That neanderthal appreciates it when people think of him? How ironic._

 

His expression faltered suddenly. _Wait. It was for Grimmjow? He was here?_

 

Kensei watched, intrigued, as Ichigo's eyes widened and flared with something that could have been taken as panic.

 

Confusion warred with annoyance when Ichigo straightened and twisted around in his seat, arm dragging across the back of the chair, to get a better view of the entrance to the bar. He had no idea what Kensei was going on about as he searched for the large body and the familiar shade of blue. His heart was beating at an anxious pace at the thought of the bluenet showing up, but Grimmjow was nowhere in sight.

 

Ichigo expelled a small breath. It was that damn dream. It had him all antsy.

 

“He's not even here,” he groused, turning halfway back to Kensei. “It'll just get warm. I don't think he's going to appreciate that...”

 

“It's almost eight. He agreed to meet us here at eight, right?”

 

“Yeah? So?” he asked, half his attention still split between extracting intel from Kensei and spying on the door behind him. In retrospect, he regretted choosing this seat. It left his backside... his back... exposed to that giant prick. Just like in the dream. Ichigo quietly dug his blunt nails into the palm of his free hand hard enough to hurt. He couldn't keep thinking about it. He had to push it out of his mind. Accept it for what it was. A fantasy.

 

No! A dream. Ichigo couldn't smack his head hard enough. He'd never get through this night if he kept letting it get to him.

 

“Well, Grimmjow's never late. And he hates it when people aren't punctual.” Kensei was very matter of fact, but the look he got from the orangette was pure contempt.

 

Ichigo brought his narrowed gaze back onto Kensei, the sternness in his eyes dissolving into a withering look. As if Ichigo was going to bend in _any_ direction to please that insufferable pain in the ass. And the twist Kensei had been putting on every single thing since the hospital wasn't helping his nerves any.

 

“Quit that,” he muttered.

 

“What?”

 

“Making it sound like... I don't know... dating advice. I only want to get along with the guy. I'm not planning on kissing his ass.”

 

“Grimmjow's ass is between you and Grimmjow.” Kensei grinned widely as Ichigo's mouth opened without sound. “I would have thought you'd be willing to take any advice you could get by now.”

 

“Keh.” Ichigo rolled his dark eyes away from Kensei.

 

“Trust me kid. If you want to end your war with Grimmjow, I can help. But I can only do so much.”

 

“I know,” he sighed, shoulders sagging as he leaned hard on an elbow and wrapped long fingers around cool glass. “I'm willing to try and figure this all out but I'm running low on faith. It seems like...” he looked up, “every time we try to get along we just keep making things worse.”

 

The older man's expression grew fond, contemplative, with a hint of mischief.

 

“That's understandable. Grimmjow's a pretty unique guy.”

 

Ichigo looked away, dark eyes too focused on the strewn shrapnel of some internal war. His head shook with the faintest sideways motion.

 

“He makes me so angry.” His hand tightened around the brown bottle. “And I can't even put my finger on it exactly... It's just...” Or maybe he could, now that he had all the pieces... the perverted... ill fitting... sordid little pieces.

 

“His constant, ruthless sarcastic jabs perhaps?” Kensei offered. His brow raised as he smirked at the confused man in front of him. “His stubborn ass ways? His prickly demeanour?”

 

Ichigo snorted, eyes bright with a dark humour.

 

“Keep going.”

 

Kensei didn't.

 

The orangette shook his head again and frowned as he tried in earnest to explain his feelings to Kensei. If there was a time for honesty, it might as well be now. This was never going to work if Ichigo didn't suck it up and admit some things, even if it was only to himself.

 

“It's not even that. I just... I can't be near him without wanting to take shots at him. He's been nothing but a dick to me since the day I met him.” Ichigo met Kensei's grey eyes.

 

“I know you haven't seen it yet, but he's a great guy.” There was a small huff to answer the silence. “Really he is,” Kensei said sincerely.

 

He shifted in his seat, pushing it sideways to stretch out his long legs and get a bit more comfortable. He leaned heavily on one arm, the other resting with his beer on his leg.

 

“To be honest, I can't really help you with the whys of things.” He looked baffled. “I've never seen him get so worked up about anybody before.”

 

“Sometimes I think he wants me, personally, dead.”

 

“He doesn't hate you, Ichigo. I promise you.” It was an automatic reply and Kensei frowned at himself for it. “He just doesn't know you yet.”

 

“He doesn't _want_ to know me.”

 

Ichigo went silent as his mind caught up with his mouth. Grimmjow had been asking questions yesterday. Right before they'd left the aquarium. He had, hadn't he? But Ichigo had gone on the defensive because he was so used to Grimmjow just attacking him. Had that been a real effort on Grimmjow's part? If it was, it was the lamest attempt at an olive branch Ichigo had ever seen. He shook his head.

 

“Look, I can put up with his piss poor social skills, and I can handle his charming vocabulary.” He stabbed at the table with a finger tip, his anger rising out of nowhere.

 

“What pisses me off is that he had his mind made up about me from day one. He doesn't give people a chance.” Kensei's gaze was neutral in the face of Ichigo's outburst. The orangette took a breath to calm himself and followed it with a quick sip of beer while his leg started up again. When the bottle clunked against the table, Ichigo looked back to Kensei. “I mean, how are you even friends with him?”

 

Kensei took in the younger man's near pleading look and tapped his own thick finger against the table before bringing it up to point at Ichigo.

 

“He respects me.”

 

“And he doesn't respect me,” Ichigo concluded, voice almost devoid of emotion. It was kind of a foregone conclusion, but Ichigo frowned anyway, his eyes darkening.

 

“Not at all,” Kensei replied, face composed and unreadable.

 

Ichigo's face slid from a scowl into the beginnings of a true blue sulk.

 

“Nice,” he muttered.

 

Kensei barked a deep laugh and slapped the table with an open palm, bringing fierce brown eyes back up with a jump.

 

“I'm joking, Ichigo. He knows you're capable.”

 

“Don't bullshit me, Kensei.” If it was possible, Ichigo's expression soured even further. “He thinks I'm a waste of time. He's as much as said so. And he's right.” Ichigo's fist came down with a thud and Kensei blinked. “It's because I can't do my job that we're losing every game.”

 

Kensei sighed. Ichigo was getting emotional. He knew hockey was a team effort. That it wasn't all about him. Grimmjow's stubborn streak was definitely doing a number on the younger man.

 

“Oh, common, young pup. Don't be like that.” It was apparent to the Reaper's captain that Ichigo cared about what Grimmjow thought of him, perhaps more than he knew. Kensei tried to sooth Ichigo with a smile, but he could see that the kid was going to be too stubborn to let go of his freshly wounded pride. So, instead he tried another tactic, a small piece of information that might grab Ichigo's curiosity, get him thinking instead of wallowing.

 

“Okay, seriously, Ichigo. I honestly don't know what bug has crawled up his butt when it comes to you, but look... I know it's hard, but try to give the guy a break. He had a rough time recently. Family stuff.” Kensei paused, seeing that he had at least part of Ichigo's attention again. “Look, hockey has always kept Grimmjow... grounded.”

 

Ichigo's eyes widened, a slew of painfully clear images of the enforcer “hard at work” jumping into his mind.

 

“You call that grounded?” he marvelled, voice grinding with irritation that Kensei would let Grimmjow off the hook for being so out of control, especially when it came to his own safety.

 

Kensei simply nodded.

 

“For him, yeah. Some people...” He raised a halting finger. “Normal people... either avoid pain or face it head on. And others, like Grimmjow, they just need to keep going at it until it stops hurting.”

 

Kensei watched as Ichigo leaned forward, probably unaware that he was even doing so, though he still wore most of the same “just bit into a lemon” look. He made a small gesture with his hand, waving Ichigo off.

 

“It's not my place to tell you about it, and it probably doesn't have anything to do with your problems directly...”

 

“Oh.” Ichigo sat back, as if the potential for answers had been cruelly ripped away and left him physically spent.

 

“...but it does explain his, mmm... less than friendly behaviour lately.”

 

“Less than friendly? Ichigo repeated, scowling. “The guy's about as loveable as a rabid badger.”

 

Kensei's brow gave aninquisitive flicker at the orangette's choice of words. They both caught it, and Ichigo fell silent as Kensei nodded in agreement, mercifully choosing to continue.

 

“He's been blowing off a lot of steam.” He gave his beer a considering look and spun it once around in his hand. “I've been patient with him because he has to deal with things in his own time.” Grey eyes trailed up. “Can't force it, you know?”

 

No. Ichigo didn't know. He had no clue what Kensei was talking about. He couldn't help it though, when his head fell to the side, a hint of a sneer tugging at his upper lip.

 

“You mean he isn't usually such a huge, arrogant asshole?”

 

Kensei looked back at Ichigo with a thoughtful tilt of his head, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

 

“Then again, maybe it _is_ just you,” he said flatly.

 

Ichigo scowled at the silver haired man who was now grinning back at him. Kensei just couldn't resist taking one more little poke at the orange haired sulky pants. After moment of basking in Ichigo's ineffective glare, Kensei sobered.

 

“Look. Consider tonight a crash course on Grimmjow. The rest you'll have to do on your own.”

 

The orangette sipped at his beer and gave an unconvincing nod as he placed it down on the table, eyes studying the label on the bottle before finding their way back to Kensei, brown now tinted with a deep melancholy that he wasn't really expecting, even from a guy like Ichigo.

 

“Right now, I'll take anything you can give me. But he needs someone to talk to him too.”

 

“Why's that?” he smirked. “So I can tell him how great you are, Kurosaki?”

 

Ichigo gave a resigned sigh, mostly at Kensei's insufferable teasing, but also because while he still had hope, any trace of optimism he'd brought in with him seemed to have died off. _Kensei was right. Maybe it was just him._

 

“Tell him whatever you want,” he murmured. “It won't matter.”

 

He already had, actually. Kensei was already up changing a messy diaper early that morning when he'd received what amounted to a desperate call from Kurosaki Ichigo. The orangette had quite literally bargained with him. They'd settled on a case of beer in the end. A small payment for something that really was no skin off his nose. Beside, he'd get to put his mediator skills to the test. Kensei made the call and told Grimmjow he was to meet the two of them for a beer. After an earful of grumbling, the bluenet conceded.

 

Of course Kensei would have done it to help out Grimmjow regardless. But Ichigo didn't need to know that. And the surge of relief and hope in the young forward's voice when Kensei had returned his call with a time and place was almost worth it.

 

“ _Oh, I had a good long talk with Grimmjow.”_

 

“ _You did?”_

 

“ _I did.”_

 

“ _And... what did he say?”_

 

“ _Didn't say much. He swore a bit. But he listened. And he's coming.”_

 

Talks of trades were already looming in the air. If they didn't sort it out soon, one of their heads would be on the chopping block. It was part of the job, being traded. Moving to another city was a sacrifice you made for your career.

 

But this was a serious situation for the enforcer. Grimmjow, he knew, would quit hockey altogether before he'd leave his mother behind. He thought she depended on him, but that was so far from the truth. And from what he knew of Ichigo, the young forward would be devastated to be so far away from his family. He lived and breathed Karakura. It was in his blood.

 

But in their conversations today Ichigo hadn't mentioned trades, or the duo's on-ice problems. Not once. He was beginning to see that it wasn't as simple as a change in playing style. This was about more than hockey, or their on-ice troubles. It was very very personal.

 

Kensei regarded Ichigo for a moment. He had a theory. Well, it wasn't his. It was his wife's actually. He'd told her she was being ridiculous, but now he wasn't so sure. There were little things he'd seen. Small glances from both sides.... on the rink, in the halls, even in the locker room... the brush of pink on Grimmjow's cheeks when he'd argued with the orangette, the way Ichigo's eyes would drop to the tiles when Grimmjow would stroll by in the showers, and, now that he thought about it, the way Grimmjow's wouldn't.

 

Kensei had decided. Something had their testicles in a frenzy. He snorted to himself. And here he thought Grimmjow just hated the kid.

 

“Well, look at it this way. You've already learned the toughest lesson about Grimmjow.” That discomforting look faded and chestnut brown sharpened once again, as if Ichigo had realized he'd let far more slip out than he'd intended and had drawn his defences back into place.

 

“Oh? And what's that,” he drawled.

 

Kensei's mouth stretched into a wide toothy grin.

 

“He bites before he licks.”

 

The slow dawning that reddened Ichigo's face was priceless.

 

It looked like Kensei might owe his wife that twenty after all.

 

**X X X**

 

“Yeah, but then I bite even harder.”

 

Ichigo jumped in his seat, the guttural growl behind him as affective as a shot gun. He twisted around to face his teammate, and any response he may have had vanished.

 

He thought he was right behind him. How did he do that? He was still halfway across the bar, but his gravelly smooth voice had somehow found its way right down the back of Ichigo's collar. He shivered from the combination of that sound and the sight of the creature that moved through the darkened room.

 

The bluenet prowled across the bar, footfalls so silent and movements so smooth, it was as if he were gliding between the tables on a cushion of air. Why was it, after seeing him so many times, Ichigo could only stare? Oh right, because he was beginning to turn into some kind of salivating fangirl.

 

Most hockey players weren't exactly revered for their looks. Broken noses and toothless smiles were not generally considered the most effective bait for attracting women. Ichigo remembered the first time he'd seen Grimmjow in person. It was in the locker room, and although Ichigo obviously knew about the intimidating blue-haired forward, he had never seen him close up and in the flesh. _(Oh god.)_

 

The pictures and the cameras hadn't done him any justice whatsoever.

 

And now... it was like he was feeling those feelings all over again. Ichigo had never seen such a purely visual creature. Everything about him seemed to attract Ichigo's senses, lighting them up. He was the very definition of eye candy. The thick, muscular neck, the incredibly well defined build of his tall, sculpted body, the long slender nose, the sharp, angular face, the crayola blue hair...

 

And those eyes... so many variations of blue crammed into so small a space... like he'd searched the world, then hijacked it, raided it, strong armed it, and finally stolen every possible shade, from the crystal clear Caribbean sea to the dark open oceans of the Atlantic.

 

And then he'd gone and filled them with the promise of a fury to match their depth.

 

The owner of said eyes grabbed the back of the chair beside Ichigo, yanked it out towards the corner and settled himself in it.

 

Ichigo sat quietly as Kensei and Grimmjow greeted with fists at the centre of the table. Grimmjow looked good tonight. Better than Ichigo had seen him in a long time. He certainly hadn't looked this... put together... two days ago. His hair was swept back at the sides, long finger like tendrils clawing down over his forehead and eyes, the back fanning down in soft waves towards the base of his neck. The way his hair flowed seemed to give him a sense of perpetual motion, like he was doing fifty miles an hour standing still.

 

And.. God almighty... what the hell was Ichigo thinking, thinking like that? That was the whole problem. He'd been thinking. Ever since the dream, his thoughts seemed to have gained focus and force. He was still just as angry and bothered by just about everything Grimmjow did and said, but now add what was beginning to feel like a soul shattering attraction to the mix and Ichigo was suddenly ready to bolt.

 

“You just passing through, Grim, or are you gonna stay?” Kensei bestowed an amused look onto Grimmjow's well worn black leather jacket.

 

“Hn. May do.” He spared a glance at Ichigo, who still hadn't said a word, and raised an eyebrow at the silver-haired man. “Depends if there's gonna be any life at this party.”

 

“Here.” Kensei pushed the extra beer towards his blue-haired compatriot.

 

Grimmjow lifted the proffered brew and took a small pull.

 

“Damn, that's good shit. Alright, I think I can stay for a bit.” He shrugged out of his jacket and let it fall across the back of his chair, the rush of his natural musk, unbeknownst to him, affecting the man next to him.

 

Kensei chuckled.

 

“Good of you. Now... Ichigo? Ichigo, you with us, pup?” They both turned to regard the orangette who's eyes had taken on a dull glaze.

 

“Uh? Oh.” He straightened, scratching the back of his neck, a nervous habit Grimmjow had seen before. “Sorry. Spaced out...” he stuttered.

 

“No shit?” Grimmjow shook his head then cracked his knuckles before crossing his arms and leaning his weight against the table. He glanced between his two teammates. ”Gotta live one here tonight eh, Kensei? What'd you do to him?”

 

“Oh, not me, my friend. He was fine a minute ago.”

 

“I'm fine,” he snapped, glaring at Kensei. Grimmjow scowled in his periphery, a look that likely would have left him feeling freeze dried had he taken the full force of it. And Ichigo sighed.

 

The foot they started off with did not seem to be the right one.

 

**X X X**

 

Ten minutes passed, with Kensei taking the lead. The conversation was casual. Though hostilities seemed ever present, they stayed a low flame and nothing more. In short, the waters were relatively smooth. Grimmjow didn't take any jabs, and Ichigo hadn't outwardly snapped again.

 

The state of mind of the young forward was a different thing entirely. His thoughts kept drifting to smooth skin, haunting eyes, and the musky scent that permeated the air around him. Hell, the man's aura alone seemed to pull them there against his will.

 

“Excuse me a second.” Ichigo shoved his seat back and searched for the bathroom at the far end of the bar, striding towards it without looking back. The moment he slipped inside he checked to see that he was alone, then expelled a lung full of air.

 

“ _Shit! Get it together, you idiot,” he chastised himself quietly. “He's the same asshole he always was. And you're not a girl!”_

 

His stomach was full of vomiting butterflies.He just needed a minute to get himself composed. This was just like NHL hockey, a bit of pre-game nerves. And he could deal with that.

 

**X X X**

 

Ichigo seemed different tonight... aside from the obvious fact that he looked good, all dressed up and sexed up. He'd easily pick up after their little threesome was over, which was probably his intent. Except there was a subtle nervousness clinging to him... as well as a scent that didn't fit.

 

But it was that strange timid flavor about him that had caught his interest immediately. And it itched Grimmjow's nerves. He wanted to know what his problem was. Was it him? Was all that tension because of Grimmjow? Could be. He wanted to know for sure but.. he was almost afraid to ask. Scratch that. He wasn't fucking afraid of anything, let alone his high strung teammate. He just had a feeling asking would end up with another face-full of claws from the hormonal male.

 

And he hadn't particularly enjoyed that.

 

He was, however, enjoying the fact that he _seemed_ to be having such a profound effect on his partner. He had to fight the urge more than once to lurch forward and yell “OY!' when Ichigo's attention had strayed for too long to the pale water rings that stained their rather rustic table.

 

“Well, you two are getting along alright. Do you think it's safe to say you've made some headway?”

 

Grimmjow watched the backside of Ichigo disappear into the men's washroom across the bar, still scowling in that direction as he grumbled.

 

“Just looking at him pisses me off.”

 

“Yup, I think things are going pretty well too,” Kensei drawled.

 

Grimmjow ignored him completely, still watching.

 

“What the fuck crawled up his ass?”

 

“What indeed.” He grinned playfully. Grimmjow glared at him in irritated confusion, forcing Kensei to backtrack. “He seems fine to me,” he shrugged.

 

“You're full of shit,” he groused. “He's actin' weird... ...er.”

 

Kensei watched the enforcer for a moment. Grimmjow was staring in the direction of the restroom again, his eyes automatically searching for the subject of his ire.

 

Kensei sighed. His wife would kill him for this... as would Ichigo if he ever found out. But, he might was well go for broke.

 

“I think our young pup actually quite likes you.”

 

Grimmjow's attention snapped back to his simpering friend, and he grunted.

 

“Uh?”

 

“I said, I think our...”

 

“I heard what ya said,” the bluenet grumbled, voice a little agitated. “What the fuck do you mean?”

 

Kensei leaned forward conspiratorially, completely unfazed by the temperamental tone. In fact, he was quite amused at Grimmjow's keen interest.

 

Grimmjow stayed rooted to his seat, ridged with suspicion, blue eyes fixed on Kensei.

 

“I think, underneath it all, Ichigo cares about you,” he said slowly. “A lot.”

 

There was a lengthy silence. Kensei leaned back in his seat, waiting.

 

Grimmjow didn't react at all. He didn't even flinch. Just stared.

 

It left Kensei beginning to wonder if Grimmjow had even _heard_ him, or worse, whether he _had_ , and was about to get up and walk out. That would be bad.

Kensei didn't usually involve himself as deeply as this in people's personal problems, unless he was asked. But now that he had been, he was hedging that he'd need to step across a line or two to be of any use at all. Especially with these two knuckle heads.

 

The silence continued, and Kensei was about to ask Grimmjow if he was alright when the blue-haired man spoke.

 

“No fucking way.”

 

It was a statement. But even more than that, it was a question.

 

Kensei tilted his head in response.

 

Grimmjow looked absolutely pissed off, and completely stricken at the same time.

 

“Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do about that?” he growled.

 

Hell, he looked half panicked. Which was interesting. Because Grimmjow didn't give a rats ass about “that kind of thing”. Normally. He was used to getting attention from all manner of would be suitors. Kensei swallowed the smile that wanted to embed itself into his features.

 

“Grim. Most of the time, you're a smart guy. But don't underestimate your capacity for missing the point entirely.”

 

“Shut it,” he growled. “Yer a fuckin' crackpot.” He shifted in his seat, reaching down to tug at the belt of his jeans.

 

“He just spent the last twenty minutes before you got here telling me how much he wants you to like him.”

 

His hawkish features sharpened.

 

“Wha-? Well, that doesn't....”

 

“And blaming himself for both your problems.”

 

He snorted.

 

“Che. S'bout time he....”

 

“Face it, Grimmjow. He likes you. Maybe a lot.” Kensei's statement was met with a dark scowl. “He's worked just as hard as you to get where he is.”

 

“Hn.”

 

“And as you can see, he's pretty worked up about this. Give the kid a little respect.”

 

The bluenet grunted, and his brows furrowed deeper in defiance. But there was a look in his eye that told Kensei his resolve to be stubborn was fast crumbling.

 

“You'll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, Grimmjow,” he said seriously. “Why don't you let him see the real you.”

 

“Catch this,” Grimmjow grunted, one heavy elbow thumping on the table and his middle finger rising in an unmistakable salutation.

 

Kensei couldn't help it. He shook his head and laughed.

 

“It's your sugary insides that make me love you, big guy.”

 

Grimmjow huffed. Kensei was right. Not about the sugary insides, but that if he could find something to like, maybe even respect in the kid, he might be able to catch some flies. And keep his position with the team. And if Ichigo liked him, then the kid obviously had good taste. Kinda had to respect that. He caught himself before he smirked. It wouldn't do to let Kensei in on all his thoughts right now.

 

He frowned when he saw Ichigo weaving his way around back to their table. The kid had slipped his radar during their conversation and had made a pit stop at the bar. He placed a beer in front of Kensei and a glass of water in front of Grimmjow.

 

Cyan eyes narrowed. The nagging little bitch was mother henning him again. He eyed the younger man as he sat down. At least he was being silent about it. Perhaps Kensei was right about the caring part. For now he'd chalk up the “other” part to the ramblings of a crazy old man. He may be a great team captain, but his friend was a loon.

 

Grimmjow turned annoyed eyes onto the orangette's, who returned the look with a neutral gaze. Like he hadn't done a thing.

 

“Quit fussin',” the bluenet grunted. “I drove. I ain't plannin' on participatin' in the road side olympics.”

 

“It's not that. I thought you wanted to play again,” he murmured. Ichigo noticed that the skin around Grimmjow's knuckles had paled. And when a chunk of ice exploded into pieces inside Grimmjow's water glass, Ichigo for a moment thought he had managed to break his beer bottle.

 

“You a fucking doctor or somethin'? 'Cause I got enough on my case.”

 

“No,” he answered mildly. “But I grew up around a clinic. My father's a doctor.”

 

That shut Grimmjow up, but only for a moment. He glanced at Kensei who gave a solemn nod. Then he frowned. How did he not know even that much about his teammate?

 

“Well, you just know everything now dontcha?” he muttered.

 

Grimmjow hadn't been able to bleed off any of his aggressive energy for the past week. He wasn't supposed to push himself. It would exacerbate his concussion symptoms. And to that point, he'd been strictly forbidden to exercise until advised by the team doctor.

 

No exercise, no hockey, no fun. He felt like mould.

 

And by the time he'd gotten up and moving that morning, he felt like he'd had to _climb_ out of his apartment. Top it off with knowing that Ichigo would be playing in tomorrow night's game after sitting out the last three... and Grimmjow had his share of reticence about meeting Ichigo tonight. If he wasn't careful, at some point he was going to choke him out.

 

“I ain't gonna marinate in it, alright? I'm gonna nurse it, so relax.”

 

Ichigo gave a half shrug, then smiled quietly into his beer. Alcohol was a no no with a concussion. He felt smug that Grimmjow had read him so well, that they understood one another. In the scheme of things, he wasn't really that concerned about one or two beer. Grimmjow clearly knew the ropes and his limits. Ichigo might have given him a little more credit, but then, Grimmjow hadn't given anyone much reason too before now.

 

**X X X**

 

“And that's when I showed her how ta do it right.”

 

Kensei was in fits of laughter. Ichigo stared, expression edged with horror.

 

Grimmjow brought the bottle up to his lips and grinned. He wrapped his lips around the opening and thrust it in and out of his mouth, cheeks hollowing as he gave the bottle a thorough blow job. Kensei sputtered at the display. Ichigo watched, eyes widening and breathing faltering as the bottle slipped past wet parted lips, warmth quickly creeping into his core. That was either the sickest or hottest thing he'd ever seen.

 

**X X X**

 

“ _You_ keep second guessing me.” Brown eyes darkened.

 

“'Hell shouldn't I? You don't trust _me_.” Azure eyes narrowed.

 

“Oy. What did I say, earlier? No hockey talk. You're both going to the penalty box if you don't shut it down right now.”

 

Two scowling faces met with Kensei's, their eye's unwillingly following his pointed finger to the treacherous looking nest of overturned chairs in the corner. The penalty box. A cage of chairs. Titters of laughter could be heard from the two person bar staff. Kensei sent a wink towards his favourite girl.

 

It was a Monday night, and most of the people who usually dropped in after work had left hours ago. It was a good thing the bar had all but emptied out. These two blockheads could be a hand full at times.

 

Kensei could see how infectious their moods were. They were really bad for each other. But it was already becoming apparent that if moulded a little, they could be very very good too.

 

**X X X**

 

Grimmjow was beginning to get a complex.

 

Every time he looked over, Ichigo's eyes were either on the table top, his beer, or their team captain. But it felt like the whole time, when he wasn't looking, that they were glued to him, studying him, mapping him out physically. In fact, Grimmjow was sure of it. He had a sense about these things. He knew when he was being watched.

 

But it was the way he was being watched that was getting to him. His gut was telling him otherwise, but he refused to pay it any attention and instead chalked it up to his partner's overt concern.

 

Grimmjow's jaw clenched as he thought about it. He didn't need the fucking orange-head worrying about him. Grimmjow's ma had been taking plenty good care of him. She called twice a day and even then, she wouldn't let him out of dinner. None of that take-out garbage for him, she'd said, not while he was recovering. Didn't matter that he could cook just fine on his own. Nothing replaced her cooking, and her boy needed his strength.

 

Grimmjow had the good sense not to fight her on it. He'd wisely kept his mouth shut about the details of his time with Ichigo, though. He needed his mother's nagging like he needed a hole in the head. She'd been hard on his case about food the past week already. His appetite had been lagging and she'd noticed. He'd tried to chalk it up to his headache and mild moodiness (depression his ass) over being out of the game, but there was another component to it all that he couldn't deny.

 

The orangette had an almost tidal effect on his mood. When he was around, his emotions roiled and surged like angry seas. And now, after everything, their not getting along was making him lose his damn appetite... and for more than just food. He was starting to mark shaky X's on his mental calendar. It had been over a month since he'd slept with a woman.

 

It was a frightening scenario, one he'd begun to swallow like broken glass. The last few opportunities he'd had before his injury, his dick had decided to roll over and play dead. The chicks were hot, but he was not. At least it had happened before, and not in the middle of things. But still.

 

It was a loathsome burden to bear, but being sexually constipated was the new reality.

 

**X X X**

 

Kensei slipped off to the bathroom, leaving the two rivals in heavy silence. Surprisingly, it was the bluenet who made the first attempt at conversation.

 

“So, you got a girlfriend, Kurosaki?”

 

He made no effort to disguise the distinct lack of interest in his voice. In fact, he made a special point of it. This was so stupid. Making boring chit chat with the guy of his murderous dreams wasn't how he wanted to spend the evening. He could be sticking his dick down some hot chick's throat right now... or better yet, up her ass... if he wasn't stuck here.

 

And, come to think of it, wasn't that just perfect? He was actually beginning to feel the distinct tingles of arousal. This was something he should be taking advantage of. He'd have to take it easy, though. In and out quick, so he didn't raise his blood pressure and aggravate his injury.

 

An index finger tapped out a blunt, uneven staccato against the table where his left arm rested at its corner.

 

How much longer did he have to sit through this, anyway? It had been what, like three hours? He glanced at the watch on his wrist. Forty minutes. Fuck him with a hockey stick. Could a storm not miraculously appear inside the bar and lightening strike him down? Scratch that. Kurosaki should take the hit, and Grimmjow could watch him smoulder. Then Grimmjow could go get his cane varnished.

 

Grimmjow let his bored gaze travel left, from his wrist watch back towards the orange-haired young man who seemed to be set on spinning his beer bottle around and around until he succeeded in making one of them physically sick.

 

The longer he waited, the more curious he got. Ichigo didn't strike Grimmjow as a guy to whom sex wasn't important. Although, Grimmjow had never seen Ichigo actually hit on a girl during their team outings. He seemed like one of those quiet ones when it came to sex. _Heh_. Where was the fun in that?

 

Ichigo fiddled with his drink as he considered the question.

 

Now that Kensei was gone, the bluenet had regressed, his attitude turning like a switch, like he had all the rights to being lazy and cocky. Ichigo felt a little less comfortable himself, but he wondered if Grimmjow was just hiding behind it.

 

As for the question about his love life, he was reluctant to go there with Grimmjow. It seemed like something the man would just use against him. And even though he wanted to find a way to smooth things over between them, somehow his current lack of a sexual life didn't really feel like a detail he wanted to share with the blue-eyed womanizer. But seeing as he was the one who had called this little party to order, Ichigo finally decided he might as well lay his cards on the table. They were supposed to be getting to know each other after all. And Ichigo had already mistrusted his intentions once before. He didn't want to be the one to be at fault a second time.

 

He went with a neutral answer.

 

“Not right now.” He made it a point to deliver his reply to the bluenet with equal enthusiasm. “You?”

 

Grimmjow sneered, his cerulean eyes lighting up with a mischievous glint.

 

Ichigo inwardly braced. He was probably not going to like whatever Grimmjow was going to say.

 

“Hn. Can't be bothered.” The bluenet took a pull from the bottom of his beer and belched. “I like variety. Why have one girlfriend when you can get your dick sucked by a half dozen willing chicks every night?”

 

Ichigo said nothing. His expression remained indifferent. _Like he said. What a surprise._

 

Instead he lifted his beer to his mouth, pressed the head of the brown bottle against his lips, and tilted his head back along with the near empty bottle. The long column of his throat bobbed as he swallowed several times, and the slightly sweet liquid, with hints of toasted grain, bubbled along the back of his tongue as it slid its way down. He didn't notice that the bluenet was still staring at him, or that he had gone quite still, a faint flush masked by the bar's unnatural light.

 

Ichigo had long ago quit mulling over his own neutral attitude towards women and relationships. He'd started dating at sixteen but he only ever dated them because they asked _him_ out. Women approached him all the time and tried to catch his eye. He had no problem going out on a date. He usually had a good time, and it often turned into a second date and an energetic hour of sex. Sex was great. He liked sex. But he always felt his desire fade after that. It was no different from the sensations he could give himself with his own hand. Sex was supposed to be better with someone else, but there was always something missing. As passionate as he could be, no woman had yet to make him feel fulfilled. And he couldn't explain to them what it was that he needed either, because he wasn't quite sure of it himself.

 

He'd tried to get into a steady relationship several times with the girls he deemed most compatible, but they got frustrated with him quickly. A few weeks was usually all it took and they'd be complaining that he never initiated sex, and that they felt more like a friend than a lover.

 

What could he say to that? There was no point in arguing. He'd usually just shrugged, apologized, admitted that he wasn't feeling it, watched them cry with a slight pang of guilt in his gut, and then felt relieved to be single again. His only solace was that he was only twenty one and he still had loads of time to find the right girl. So, he hadn't given it much thought.

 

Ichigo leaned back in his chair in a casual slouch, empty bottle resting on his thigh, and ventured a follow-up question of his own.

 

“Getting your dick sucked sounds great,” he drawled. He didn't want to be outdone by the flamboyant bluenet, who had turned back to the tv. He watched Grimmjow's long eyelashes fluttered twice and his azure eyes widen slightly. The younger man smirked, but he couldn't help it when his voice turned more thoughtful as he continued.

 

“But... don't you want to find someone... who cares about you when they do it?”

 

Grimmjow slid Ichigo a sideways look as if considering something important. Ichigo swore he saw something jump behind those impossible eyes before steel blinds came crashing down again. A pink tongue flicked across his lips before he answered with a small shrug and returned his cool gaze to the television screens.

 

“Che. Not really. A hole's a hole.”

 

Ichigo frowned. The flickering light from the images on the nearby screen played like a cat with the blue tones of Grimmjow's eyes, letting Ichigo catch the subtle crease as he flinched. The movement seemed to open cracks in the other man's carefully constructed look of indifference. He'd said he didn't care. But somewhere in those ocean blue eyes something said otherwise. Ichigo wondered if Grimmjow had adopted that attitude because he'd been burned too many times.

 

He could actually relate to that, having things go south so often. But he still wanted to find that special person. Didn't Grimmjow?

 

“You're saying you've never thought of settling down... eventually?” he prodded.

 

The large hand that rested on the table twitched, and Ichigo swore the bluenet was going to face palm himself. Instead, Grimmjow rolled his head towards him with what sounded like a long suffering sigh. But a serious glare seemed tempered with uncharacteristic patience.

 

“'Course I want somebody,” he snapped, a grumbled “fuck” under his breath.

 

It seemed like an apology. So Ichigo waited.

 

A pause followed an intake of breath.

 

“I don't plan on doin' anything that has the word _settle_ in it,” the bluenet rumbled, voice concise but subdued, almost gentle.

 

Ichigo felt the shiver from that husky tenor reverberate down through his middle, then shook it off.

 

He nodded. Fair enough. Grimmjow knew what he wanted in life, and he wasn't willing to settle. And that was something Ichigo could understand.

 

But why did that statement have to leave such a subtle pang of loss in his gut?

 

**X X X**

 

Grimmjow stared at the screen, but the images were far beyond his awareness at the moment.

 

The kid was doing it again. Making him think on things he had tried not to give too much thought to. Before Kurosaki had showed up, Grimmjow had been an enforcer and a ladies' man. Plain and simple. But was it?

 

For Grimmjow, dating... more like fucking... was nearly a past time, until recently.

 

He didn't want a casual easy thing. He liked some fire, some challenge in the women he dated. If they didn't have that, then he fucked them once or twice and moved on. When a woman had enough life in her to hold his interest, he'd give it a shot. But that was so rare. Even Yoruichi wasn't enough, and she had quite a bit of fire in her. The women he'd properly dated in his twenty five years, he could count on one hand. And they'd never stayed around for more than a few weeks or a couple of months at best.

 

He always gave them the old heave-ho because, not only did they fail to keep his interest, but they always tried to change him. Fix him. Tame him.

 

And he liked himself just the way he was.

 

He would have preferred _them_ to be more like _him_ , not the other way around. Damn it. Give him feeling. Give him passion. He longed for it, but no matter how many women he tried to date, or sleep with or fuck or whatever, he was always left feeling dissatisfied and bored. He wanted something more from them.

 

And more often than not, he had the impression that they wanted something more from him too, especially now that he was making obscene amounts of money. They wanted his money and his status. He was just a trophy. He snorted. Damn straight. But he was finding that he didn't even care enough anymore to weed out the real from the fake. He hadn't bothered seriously with the dating field in over a year. He'd become complacent with the routine he'd fallen into, to just stick his eight inches into the latest willing hole and then be on his way.

 

Outside of hockey and his only living parent, Grimmjow was loath to admit it, but he felt alone, surrounded by leaches and wannabes. Everybody had an angle. And there was only one person on his team that he trusted with his personal shit, Kensei, the man who reminded him so much of his father **.**

 

**X X X**

 

When Kensei left his seat and headed to the men's room for the fifth time in less than three hours, Ichigo wondered if the older man might be in need of a prostate exam or whether he was just trying to give some space to “you two girls” as he'd put it to them earlier that evening.

 

The guy had been exceptionally helpful so far, and he'd managed to draw them all into some downright interesting debates which actually found Ichigo and Grimmjow agreeing, even tag teaming Kensei to make their points. If Ichigo had to guess, the older man had purposely taken the opposing side just to create the conflict. He was a smart man in Ichigo's opinion, and he definitely knew Grimmjow better than anyone else Ichigo had spoken to.

 

And Ichigo couldn't believe how much he'd learned about Grimmjow in such a short time, how much Grimmjow had opened up at the urging of the other man.

 

He was interesting to put it mildly, an accomplished thrill seeker. Golf had no place in Grimmjow's repertoire for summer fun. He'd rattled off a few pastimes that kept him busy in the off season; the mellow ones like camping and canoeing, biking, and barbeques, and more adrenaline inducing sports, like white water rafting, water skiing, surfing, boxing... and a nearly fatal attempt at paragliding. If it existed, apparently he'd _consider_ trying it once.

 

“ _You really did that?” Ichigo scoffed._

 

“ _Ask Kensei,” the mellow tenor replied. “He was the one that put me up to it.”_

 

“ _Yes. I did. But I also told you to be gentle with the lines.” Grimmjow rolled his eyes. “If it weren't for those trees, you would have been pavement paste.”_

 

“ _Aren't you supposed to get training for that?” Ichigo interjected flatly._

 

_Two sets of eyes gleamed._

 

“ _Yeah. You're supposed to,” Kensei grinned. “But Superman here thought he was born to fly.”_

 

_Blue eyes widened in remembrance._

 

“ _Fuckin' had to throw those shorts out.” An oversized canine appeared in a sneer. “At least I didn't almost cause a stampede at a cattle ranch.”_

 

“ _At least I didn't almost get my ass eaten by a shark.”_

 

“ _It wasn't a shark. It was a fuckin' guppy.”_

 

“ _It was a shark. I saw the fin.”_

 

“ _It was two feet long!”_

 

“ _Like fun it was... Ichigo if he ever asks you to go naked surfing... just don't.”_

 

“ _Che, nothin' wrong with naked surfin'.”_

 

_Ichigo blushed._

 

**X X X**

 

By now, the two men were sitting in what was more or less a comfortable silence, Grimmjow's lazy gaze sliding away from the racy view of the waitress's overexposed backside as she leaned across the bar to reach for a dishtowel, and drifting towards the flat screen television screens that littered the large but quiet establishment.

 

A deep tenor suddenly broke through Ichigo's musings as he took a pull from the bottom of his third and final beer of the night. Lite beer. He had no use for hangovers. Plus he had a game tomorrow night. And though he usually preferred coolers to beer, he wasn't in the mood to take flack for his tastes tonight. And in present company, he would most definitely be scrutinized.

 

“So, you chose Kensei as the chaperone, huh?”

 

Ichigo coughed into his beer. He'd been made. Kensei had promised to tell Grimmjow it was his idea to come out for drinks. Not Ichigo's. But Grimmjow wasn't buying it.

 

His immediate response... after choking... was denial. But no. Grimmjow hated liars. And it wasn't Ichigo's strength anyway.

 

“Uh. Yeah. I guess,” he muttered, speaking from behind the fist he was using to wipe away the rogue bead of beer that was dribbling down his chin. Ichigo brushed the moisture from his hand onto the leg of his jeans. He glanced at the bluenet to catch Grimmjow's eyes studying his face. A soft smirk pulled at the corner of the enforcer's lips as he returned his attention to one of the tv's mounted over the tables across the bar.

 

“You sound like you gave that some thought as well,” Ichigo ventured, ignoring the slight flutter in his stomach. Something in the beer, perhaps.

 

The bluenet was resting his cheek in his palm, watching the highlights of an auto race, but he shot a sideways glance at Ichigo that had a hint of amusement in it.

 

“It occurred to me.”

 

“Ah.” He shrugged. “Well, I figured if anybody on our team had any sense, it would be Kensei.” Ichigo mimicked Grimmjow's body language, leaning his elbow on the table, planting his chin inside his palm, and curling his fingers up against his mouth. There was a muffled snort from his right.

 

“Hn. Woulda been my pick too.”

 

Ichigo smiled behind his fingers. So, Grimmjow had been at least thinking about ways to smooth things out as well. That was fucking promising. Hell, that was the clouds parting and a giant beam of heavenly light cascading down around them while a ten thousand-voiced choir of angels belted out an inspirational rendition of Halle-motherfuckin-lujah.

 

Ichigo felt some of the tension loosen in his shoulders. He was pleased. No, beyond pleased. Almost, too pleased come to think of it. It was the same kind of indestructible _“I'm on top of the world”_ feeling Ichigo got whenever he shot the puck and the goaltender caught it between his legs, only to stare in horror as it trickled in between his pads and found its way into the net. He felt kind of... giddy.

 

Well, whatever. Grimmjow was actually willing to work things out between them. And so was he. That's all that mattered.

 

Ichigo was going to buy Kensei at least five cases of beer for this. He'd earned it.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

He could feel the cool snap of crisp air filling his lungs, the whispered scrape of sharpened blades slicing against the ice, and the stretch and pull of muscles so powerful that it would take hours of punishment to exhaust them.

 

But only in his mind.

 

Grimmjow settled himself deeper into the guts of his couch and folded arms heavy with knotted muscle into a rigid weave against his chest, face set in an unimpressed scowl as he watched the game play out from the relative solitude of his apartment.

 

He inhaled slow and deep, held it, and exhaled just as slowly. He could feel an acid growl building, an uprising of resentment tightening things in the depths of his chest and throat. But he kept it to himself.

 

He wasn't alone.

 

The neighbours down the hall had insisted on dropping in with a six pack of beer.

 

They were a nice couple. Considerate. Helpful. And unobtrusive... as a rule.

 

The pretence tonight was to keep Grimmjow company. And they did. But he knew their true motive. Not that they tried to hide it. It had been the subject of several recent short hallway conversations.

 

They really wanted to watch the game on his system.

 

Grimmjow had wanted to say no. He really had. But, he'd been promising them for awhile now. And short of lying, he really couldn't come up with a tangible reason to turn them away. He wasn't sick. He wasn't going anywhere. He wasn't about to miss the game.

 

So, as it turned out, tonight was the night he would keep that promise. And what an opportunity, to watch their favourite team in the company of their favourite player. So, here they were.

 

Grimmjow didn't blame them one bit. It was a sweet setup. A huge flat screen TV that dropped down remotely from the ceiling of his apartment. The images were so spectacular, so vivid, that no detail of the game was missed, right down to the film of slick sweat and colourful bruises that stained the players’ faces.

 

Indeed, it was the next best thing to rinkside. Grimmjow's system rocked. Now the neighbours were thinking of getting one too. But that was neither here nor there.

 

With the Reaper's stadium in a happy uproar, the final period of the game had come to a close. Right now, Grimmjow was lost in contemplation, a world away from the cheerful banter going on right next to him. He was so consumed by his thoughts that the sense that something was happening around him was barely enough to catch even a thread of his attention. But remarkably it did, if only for a moment.

 

Voices from his left and the rustle of bodies practically clawing their way out of their near supine bliss on his couch drew the bluenet from the crowd-pleasing “three stars” segment that was playing out on his screen. It was tradition, having three players, deemed the stars of the game, skate a loop out onto the ice to receive recognition from the fans for their input into the action.

 

It meant nothing. It was just a bit of fun for the fans. And normally, the enforcer remained unmoved about who won what when he wasn't playing. But now he had a growing, if not gnawing curiosity to see who was selected. In fact, as the lights of the arena went down and the spotlights came up, it was fast becoming a burning anxiety, like his stomach was rusting from the inside out.

 

The chaos to his left faded back to nothing. And Grimmjow listened and watched as, one by one, three players each did a quick u-turn on the ice for the crowd before retreating to the locker room to strip down and rinse off.

 

The muscles in Grimmjow's jaw twitched.

 

Kurosaki wasn't called out.

 

Good.

 

No cake for him.

 

Grimmjow could just imagine how insufferable the little cocksucker would be if he'd been chosen by the media as one of the night's star players.

 

'Cause he would just... well he'd...

 

Grimmjow's arm muscles tensed and strained against themselves, powerful coiled weapons still bound within their self-made cage.

 

Alright... Kurosaki wouldn't even mention it.

 

The enforcer's lips drew into a tight thin line.

 

But still... it would be just too much to see him again, both of them knowing that he'd....

 

The hollow ring of empty bottles jostled the bluenet back to the present before his lip could finish its ascent into an angry curl. He blinked hard, like he'd been stung in the eye, before he got his bearings.

 

That's right. He had guests. The enforcer dragged his tense scowl away from the screen and turned it on said guests, his expression quickly and forcibly tamedinto something a little less... scary. He was mildly relieved to see that it worked, the amorous pair acting as jubilant as ever.

 

Grimmjow unhooked a hand long enough to raise it, a short cheerless motion, as they gathered up their case of empties and let themselves out of his apartment.

 

Smiles. Laughter. A playful hint that somebody was going to get some tonight.

 

Tch. It was nauseating.

 

He snorted loudly at the lovers, his anaemic sideways grin, as they backed into the hall half bowed in mock reverence, falling dead away as the door clicked shut.

 

Still facing the doorway, Grimmjow slumped back and let his head drop to the side, ignoring the awkward twist it put in his neck to have his cheek resting on the back of the couch, and finding less enjoyment in the empty space beside him than he'd expected. He contemplated the spot and the couple a thick moment longer than he felt he should have before finally righting himself and turning his attention back to the screen.

 

The post game wrap up was starting. Grimmjow unhooked his ankles and let a deep yawn get the better of him as he dragged his feet off the coffee table, knees parting obscenely as he slouched down in a sudden fit of boneless bacheloresque apathy. It wasn't that late; eleven. But he was still tired. He wanted to watch parts of the game again, scroll through to the important bits, but he'd have to do that in the morning.

 

Casually, he reached down to the burdened space between his legs and drug two blunt fingertips across the material of his sweats, the pliantflesh beneath them shifting against his fingers as he worked away a small itch.

 

All he'd really wanted to do tonight was let himself be absorbed in the game. It had been a little distracting having company, but in the end he knew it wasn't a bad thing to have it. He had the tendency to shut the world out at times, and even _he_ couldn't deny that he'd been getting his sulk on since his injury. He wanted, no, needed to get back out there on the ice.

 

He sat up and shifted his ass towards the edge of the couch, still watching as the announcers replayed the highlights, his fingers absently digging for the remote that lay half trapped beneath the bulking edge of his thigh.

 

He pulled it free and switched the system off. The apartment went quiet, save for the hum of the screen being drawn back up into its chambers.

 

If he'd wanted to, he could have been watching the game from the team's private suite, a fully stocked luxury box perched at the summit of the stands, far above the reach of the crowds. But why bother? He could see the game fine from here, study Ichigo from a different angle, see how he played, hear the announcer's take on things. A totally new vantage point.

 

He placed the remote on the table, setting in its spot beside the others.

 

The he reached for his drink, plucking the tall glass from its coaster, and took a large sip. It wasn't creepy at all... hiding at home and following his teammate's every move with near predatory concentration. It had seemed sensible, in fact, when he'd first thought about it. Grimmjow wanted answers as much as Ichigo did. And he needed at least _some_ peace and quiet to do that. Besides, he didn't really want to be there if he couldn't play. There was no hiding from the well wishers, the owners, the fans and arena staff, all prodding, meaning well, but in the end just reminding him that he wasn't strong enough yet to return.

 

The press would sniff him out in no time flat as well. And he didn't feel like being subjected to the same questions over and over.

 

_How are you feeling? When do you think you'll be ready to play?_

 

And now... _Kurosaki Ichigo scored while you were away, and the Reapers won. What do you think about that?_

 

Growling, the bluenet lifted his heavy weight off the couch, then sidestepped around the coffee table and thudded in socked feet towards the kitchen with his glass. He stopped at the sink and paused before he threw back another mouth full of liquid, then poured the rest of the water down the drain.

 

What _did_ he think about that?

 

It wasn't what Grimmjow would have called a spectacular shot against the opposing team's goalie. Kurosaki caught him napping. Plain and simple. But the result was the same. The Reapers won 4-2. And though Kurosaki didn't get an official assist on two of the other goals, he'd been as much a part of them as if he'd put it in the net himself.

 

Grimmjow's palm slammed against the flat switch on the wall as he left the kitchen, throwing the apartment into a near pitch black silence. He turned left, making no effort to turn on the hall light. He knew his way around this place fine in the dark. The floors of his apartment were clean. He wasn't going to stub his toes on anything in the hall.

 

And he sure as shit didn't believe in monsters and things that went bump in the night. Indeed, the world was a scary enough place with the people that inhabited it. Him included. Why make shit up?

 

_Bump in the night. Monsters._

 

A few steps further down the hall, Grimmjow reached the open doorway of his bedroom and stopped dead. His lungs stilled. He swayed against his own heartbeat, and all his concentration turned inward, ghostly voices from the past whispering over his shoulder through the darkness. He couldn't stop them.

 

“ _I'm telling you, you are getting too rough.”_

 

“ _Paaaa.” A growled warning. “I said don't start on me again. I'm doing my job.”_

 

“ _You were not this rough before you became a big shot star.”_

 

“ _Hn.” A side glare, but no argument._

 

“ _This coach asks too much. And you just do whatever he says.”_

 

“ _They need an enforcer to make the other team's take'm seriously.”_

 

“ _Not like this.” A fist resting on the table top. “You are making a name for yourself and I don't like it.”_

 

“ _I do what they need me ta do. And we're winning.” A glare. Defiant._

 

“ _That's not how we played hockey when I was a kid.”_

 

_A derisive snort. “Yeah, well, when you were a kid they were still playing on the glaciers.”_

 

“ _Hn. And you are this great Sexta now.” Contempt. “With all this money, these... floozy women, all this fame._

 

_Eyes bright, dangerous. “Yeah. I am.”_

 

“ _Is it worth your body? Your health?”_

 

“ _We're winning games because of me.”_

 

“ _Keep it up, Grimmjow, and you won't last.”_

 

“ _I'm gonna keep getting better.” Voice raised. Angry. Bitter. “So, why can't ya just be happy for me?”_

 

“ _Better at what?” Heated. “You are not being the son I raised you to be.” Arms folded. A dismissal._

 

“ _I'm exactly what you raised me to be!” A snarl. “You put me in hockey so I could be myself!”_

 

“ _No! I put you in to curb your temper, show you some control! But look what I have gotten from all of my efforts!” The cash on the table, swiped away. A gift. An insult. “All these years and all I have to show for it is a young hotheaded brat of a son! That's what you are!”_

 

_Silence. “So, I'm a failure to you, am I?” A dangerous calm._

 

“ _I don't like at all what you've become. You're better...”_

 

_The hard scrape of a chair._

 

“ _Grimmjow...”_

 

“ _Keep it. Burn it. I don't fuckin' care.”_

 

“ _Grimmjow...”_

 

“ _Don't!” Eyes wild. Ice cold. “...fuckin' talk to me.”_

 

No. Stop. No more. Go away. Something else. Grimmjow's jaw clenched, tightening, threatening to snap his own bones. He opened his eyes, finding himself back in his apartment, the dark, the present. The ugly truth squashed under the shadows. That had crept up on him too fast this time. Too real.

 

Dead things, it seemed, denied their peace, never stayed buried.

 

He needed to get back to reality, to something more tangible, that mattered right now. Something he could deal with, instead of wallowing in past mistakes.

 

Another voice helpfully filled in the momentary silence in his head, chiming in to sound as real as ever.

 

“ _...I can't play with an idiot like you when you're always so busy hating my guts...”_

 

The bluenet's shoulders rose as a catch in his throat met with the return of breath. Almost relief. But not. Tonight's game was proof that Kurosaki could do it when he wanted to, that the forward wasn't living up to his potential. Grimmjow had seen a telling flicker of the old Ichigo tonight.

 

And it was troubling.

 

Because maybe Ichigo had been right. And the kink in their slinky really was Grimmjow.

 

He let out a wordless growl, the side of his palm slamming against the hard wood of the frame with a thud.

 

Thoughts beginning to race, Grimmjow's head turned to in the dark, slowly, tilting as though he were listening for a sound he knew would be there.

 

“ _I think our young pup actually quite likes you.”_

 

He snorted, a hard derisive burst of warm air. Ichigo liked Grimmjow about as much as Grimmjow liked him. The decree that Kurosaki “ _quite liked him”_ was just Kensei's misguided opinion. Had to be. And Grimmjow still wasn't sure just what Kensei had meant by that. The words themselves were harmless, casual. But the tone... the damn tone and the damn smirk he'd worn... _that_ had left Grimmjow wondering what his friend was really alluding to.

 

Grimmjow wasn't the kind of guy to jump to conclusions about people's personal preferences most of the time, and he didn't really see what that had to do with anything, even if it were true. At face value, the only thing Kensei actually said was that Ichigo liked him.

 

But that was a lie. Of course it was. Kurosaki was just trying to save his career. Nothing more. There was no love lost here. Everything Grimmjow had seen and been through with the younger male said otherwise. All those screw ups and missed chances. It had to be on purpose. And despite everything that had happened recently, one dark and narrow corner of Grimmjow's mind hadn't quit entertaining the idea that the orangette was purposely undermining Grimmjow's efforts, making them both look bad. But in his calmer states he'd had to ask himself, why? Because Grimmjow wasn't good enough for Ichigo?

 

Colourless in the shadows of his darkened apartment, the enforcer’s knuckles lightened as he squeezed all the space he could from within his curled fist, anger thrumming closer to the surface with each quickened heartbeat.

 

Not good enough for Ichigo?

 

That idea could fuck off.

 

“ _Getting your dick sucked sounds great...”_

 

He sneered at the odd little piece of memory, unconcerned as to why that particular one had chosen to surface at this moment, but focused on it now in his turbulent mood nevertheless.

 

The tips of two sharp bits of bone appeared as glints in the dark, picking up the whisper of light from the clock across the room. He was more than good enough. Ichigo should bend over, drop to his chest and knees and take every last one of Grimmjow's ridged inches and fucking weep his thanks to Grimmjow for the honour while he took them.

 

Grimmjow gripped the door frame he'd struck moments ago and sagged forward, forehead pressing against his knuckles. The enforcer's breathing was harsh and hot. He turned his head and let the sharp bones of his knuckles dig themselves into the ache that had started up in his temple.

 

He dragged air into his lungs and squeezed his eyes shut, skin burning from heat that had surfaced like orange, fiery veins of lava.

 

Shit. Was he listening to himself? That was _some_ fucked up. Grimmjow had gotten rough during sex before, as Yoruichi had pointed out, but he never used it intentionally as violence. Hockey was the place to let his rage out. In the game, and only the game. Most of the time he'd been able to control it to some degree, the anger itself, but never with Ichigo.

 

Why was it always so hard?

 

As if with a will of their own, more images appeared, and for a moment Grimmjow was reliving the terrible dance that was their battle on the ice. The powerful memory slammed through him and he let it. It started to get him hard, and he let that happen too, thinking about how they might fight like that again. But with the chaotic memory came that glare, a look of pure disgust and hate, like Grimmjow was something vile and contemptible. His jaw tensed. Fuck, how he'd hated that look. Ichigo was like no other force on earth when it came to making his blood boil.

 

His fist tightened, then relaxed as he sighed. Grimmjow was suddenly tired, a bone aching crush of lethargy settling as much into his limbs as it was his soul.

 

He couldn't be like this tomorrow. Not around Ichigo. He at least needed a decent night's sleep to hold himself together.

 

Grimmjow drew another deep breath and stepped inside his bedroom, ripping his shirt off, balling it up, and tossing it into the blackness. The catching sound of fabric hitting wicker and dragging along it told him he'd hit the outside of the basket in the left corner of the room. Close enough. He felt better already, the cool air robbing some the heat from his skin.

 

He didn't bother to brush his teeth or piss. He'd done that earlier. Instead, he crawled on all fours across the smooth covers of his bed, still wearing his grey sweat pants, and let himself collapse. He lay there like that in the dark, sprawled on his stomach, like something defeated on the muddy pitch of battle, arms flung out, and stared unfocused into the darkness.

 

He felt calmer now, still thinking about a number of things as he waited for sleep to take him.

 

Being an enforcer in the NHL wasn't exactly the ultimate dream of most little kids playing hockey. There was so much pressure in that role, something most people didn't understand. Not every team in the league had one, and Grimmjow was beginning to question whether or not he was even needed. If he couldn't score and he wasn't needed, then where was it going to leave him?

 

Grimmjow swallowed. He'd had someone he talked with about his role in the game, though the words were few, unneeded much of the time, a person who'd been there from the moment he was born, who knew his fears, strengths, better than he seemed to at times. Other times not at all. But he was gone now. By Grimmjow's own hand. He sighed and pushed the thought away, gently this time, but firmly.

 

The questions had come up several times in his absences, before the seasons started and now. He had nobody to talk to about that pressure, except perhaps Kensei. But they _didn't_ talk about it. Grimmjow just never felt the need to. His role felt so natural. He loved it. And the thing he really had going for him was that he was strong. He didn't turn to drugs and alcohol to deal with the anxiety of the job like some other players did. In fact, most of the time, specially during the game, he had no anxiety at all.

 

It was times like now though, when he was left sitting on the sidelines that he really started to wonder, started to worry. It was now, that the need to smooth things out with Kurosaki and get his own scoring issues under control became glaringly obvious.

 

And this _time_ , this _chance_ , if he were to look at it that way, was fast coming to an end.

 

He'd had a checkup this morning and the prognosis was positive. So much so, that Grimmjow's doctor had been rather impressed.

 

Hn. Night after night of the show he put on and the guy didn't know he was fucking Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez?

 

Well, the hint of light sensitivity and the occasional dull ache in Grimmjow's head were his only symptoms at this point. (And maybe a little confusion, but he doubted that had anything to do with his concussion.) The important thing was, his doctor was letting the leash out. He was encouraged to start exercising again, though nothing more than a power walk or some laps around the pool followed by rest, for the next few days.

 

Well, that was fucking exciting. But when was going to see the ice again? How long was he going to be stuck watching from the sidelines?

 

If he continued to improve, at most a week, perhaps. They'd take it day by day. But not yet.

 

Not yet.

 

In the meantime, he had work to do. As soon as he'd finished his checkup, he'd rushed off to do exactly what his doctor told him, and he'd thrown on his swim briefs, not shorts (too much drag), and done a heap of laps in the building's private pool. He was exhausted afterwards, but it was a good kind of tired. The resulting headache was noticeable, but an afternoon sprawl on his couch was enough to wipe it away. He had every intention of going at it again tomorrow.

 

In fact, he had no choice. Grimmjow had emerged from his post swim pass out session to the drilling sound of his phone vibrating its way across his coffee table. He struggled to reach it in time, disoriented and half asleep as he was, but managed to scoop it out of the air before it hit the floor.

 

His senses had all but snapped back into place when he saw who had interrupted his nap. Kurosaki, calling him after the team's morning practice to see if they could hook up. Grimmjow had told him the good news, that he'd be back soon, and though it had come out sounding a bit more like a threat than anything, Ichigo had sounded... happy for him.

 

Grimmjow couldn't figure that out. They hadn't even breached the surface of their problems, and thanks to Kensei, they weren't allowed to, and Ichigo was fucking happy the enforcer was coming back? After a half hour of pondering this as he continued to recline on his couch, the bluenet had given up entirely.

 

He had no choice but to focus on the now. And that was this. Barring any injuries from his own first game back, Ichigo had said he'd be available to help Grimmjow out. They could go for a nice long walk. The enforcer had wrinkled his nose at the thought of taking a pansy-assed stroll. He wanted to hit the ground running, not walking. But in the end he'd agreed to it. Hell, Grimmjow was pretty sure that hanging out with Ichigo counted as a form of exercise.

 

Grimmjow stared into the inky blackness, the subdued blue light from his alarm clock lost somewhere behind him. He was tired minutes ago, but now his mind had wound itself up again, jumping from thought to thought, the only connecting piece, that waste of space pumpkin head. Grimmjow felt a small grin appear despite the downward flux of his emotions. He'd have to try that one out at some point tomorrow and see where it got him.

 

Tomorrow. Shit.

 

Grimmjow had always abided by one simple motto when it came to hockey as a career. The better you play, the better you get to live. Now, more than ever, he had to play to win. And it all seemed to hinge on Ichigo.

 

How bad could tomorrow be? Their meeting with Kensei had been a small success. Rather, it wasn't nearly as bad as Grimmjow had anticipated. The one beer Kurosaki had “allowed” him to have had helped take the edge off.... until Ichigo... swallowing that beer. Crap. For the first time, without being in the heat of anger, Grimmjow had... reacted. The constricting movement of the long lines of his throat had caused Grimmjow's libido to stir in excitement. Just for that brief moment all he could see was his dick sliding deep down into the wet abyss of that bobbing column, filling that mouth with his flesh and shutting it up. He saw himself fisting Ichigo's orange hair by the scruff, wrenching his head back and holding his body hostage, all while forcing wet lips to part and slide, kissing again and again against the base of his cock until he shot his seed right down his throat.

 

Great. Now he was hard.

 

He really wasn't looking forward to tomorrow. Grimmjow curled his arms around the pillow beneath his face, hugging it tight and staring into the darkness of his room. He was feeling less and less prepared for the unknown it would bring.

 

His stiff member twitched for attention, and he groaned. No fucking way. He would just white knuckle it until morning. No way was he going to rub one out to that image, no matter how enticing it might be.

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

Ichigo tugged persistently at his lower lip as he maneuvered his car through the streets of Karakura, mind drifting to autopilot along the straight stretches while he considered and reconsidered his current situation.

 

After last night, Ichigo had taken a giant step up from being the worst thing the town had ever seen on ice. In fact, if the fans' reaction was anything to go by, he was something of a hero again. A young man of Ichigo's particular disposition could appreciate that, despite the shallow nature of being on again off again with the fans. In the end, though, it was always the win that really drove him. The victory.

 

But as much as he'd tried to enjoy their win, he couldn't shake feeling bothered by last night's game.

 

The mood in the locker room had been nothing short of jubilant. Smiles that felt like a thing of the past had returned. And though Ichigo had come off the ice just as psyched as the rest of the team, caught up in the visceral high and the flurry of head rubs and words of approval, it hadn't lasted long.

 

It felt good to score again, but it didn't.

 

He hadn't let on to the other guys that he'd had any sort of mixed emotions on the matter. No. Of course not. They were happy, and he wasn't going to piss on anyone's parade. After so long without a really good win, they deserved it. Compared to the bulk of the season so far, the night was a sweeping success.

 

And no one but him seemed inclined to think otherwise.

 

Ichigo caught the name on the street sign just in time to make the turn off of a main artery and ease onto one of the downtown side streets in an area that he wasn't so familiar with.

 

He was almost at his destination, and it took his thoughts to perhaps an even more insistent problem, if it were possible to make a choice between the two. He'd be wrong to say that they weren't so intertwined for it to matter. It was bad enough that the enforcer's absence had made Ichigo's win a bitter one. But this new predicament, which had nearly incited an all-out dispute between him and another teammate, was warring for attention and brewing like a bad case of gas into the forefront of his mind.

 

And the source of that bad case of gas was, of course, Shinji. Ichigo had barely had a moment to celebrate his contribution to last night's win, and Shinji was already pressuring him to be his wing-man on a date. The prize of victory, he'd called it.

 

Ichigo grimaced as he sped along the street. He hadn't even managed to get his sweaty helmet off when Shinji had started up. According to the blond aspiring Casanova, the girl Shinji had somehow manged to entrap into a date had a friend, and the friend needed a night out with good guy, someone who was single, available, who would make her feel appreciated, maybe even sexually if things went in that direction, but who wouldn't just use her for it.

 

Boy, had Shinji put his money on the wrong horse.

 

Even though Ichigo told him straight off the bat that he wasn't interested in a blind date at the moment, he was still at least two firm “NO's” away from Shinji believing him.

 

But to be honest, Ichigo was damn near considering it.

 

Since his elicit dream, he felt like he'd done a belly flop from being relatively aloof in matters of sex and instead plunged headfirst into sexually frustrated waters. And the prospect of trading up from his five fingers and the slicked palm of his hand to a living breathing human being was becoming hard to resist.

 

Ichigo wasn't a prude. Not really. He was a normal guy with normal needs. He was just respectful. Usually.

 

He'd done it before, slept with a woman he'd just met. And he'd found the experience rather lacking. But despite that, and despite the well defined lean of his current urges, Ichigo was pretty sure he could still make it work with one. He certainly needed the release to take his mind off of things and feel “normal” again for awhile.

 

He sighed as he gently geared his old car down.

 

No matter how many times the temptation flickered through his mind, Ichigo knew the answer was still going to be no. Though it was in conflict with the general fuck'em and leave 'em attitude of many of his teammates, Ichigo's upbringing wouldn't allow him the freedom to do that if the girl had obvious expectations of it becoming anything more.

 

He shifted in the driver's seat.

 

Or at the very least, it would nag him if he did.

 

Even if he did play the good guy and he didn't sleep with her, it still wouldn't be fair to the girl. He was sure she would hardly feel appreciated. If they went out, there may as well be a vacant dotted outline where her date should be, because Ichigo's head was just too jumbled with his personal problems right now.

 

He laughed out loud at the thought as he pulled up to a stop sign. Considering Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez a personal problem just sounded so... intimate... so... insane.

 

Ichigo's foot hit the peddle with force, and the engine hi-cupped in protest before it growled in response and the car propelled forward.

 

Okay. No date. He'd worry about his actual sex life later, just as soon as he got his issues with Grimmjow sorted out.

 

It was amazing to him just how quickly he had come to accept that this new side of himself might exist, whatever it actually was. He wasn't too sure he liked the idea of the labels that went with the feelings he was having, whether he was gay now, or bisexual, or what. He'd never looked twice at another guy before. So, calling himself gay seemed a bit much. The only thing he could say for sure was that there was something about the blue haired enforcer that attracted him, in a very physical way.

 

So, yes. Okay. He was gay for Grimmjow. Maybe. He snorted. Or more likely some dreamlike version of the man.

 

On second thought, maybe gay really wasn't the right word. More than your typical guy, Grimmjow just seemed to be a class unto himself.

 

He resumed the gentle gnawing of his bottom lip.

 

There were moments when the sense of relief, of at least having some understanding for why he hadn't been able to make relationships work properly up to now, seemed to tip the scales and calm his disoriented sense of manliness. Other moments, not so much.

 

It sucked that he couldn't talk to anyone about this. It was kind of a big deal. But too many things needed sorting out in his head before he'd even consider it. There was one thing he could be sure about though. He was scared. Of course he was. Scared of conversations. Of repercussions. And they weren't small. Career ending at their worst. Another hard road at their best.

 

Any guy in his shoes, a professional hockey player, in a sport that advocated manliness and roughhousing, a place where testosterone and conflict were groomed and glorified, would be feeling the same way.

 

He tasked himself as he made a left turn. Here he was, getting all ahead of himself again. Damn the bluenet and his ridiculous appeal. At the moment, this was only about _him_. Kurosaki Ichigo, and no one else.

 

He reminded himself as he turned another corner, that he'd already decided he was just going to go with this new feeling and see what happened. Figure it out. Nothing sexual was ever going to happen between him and the real Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez. Of that he could be sure. But if he kept his head together, he could at least gauge his feelings and learn more about what made himself tick. Find out what is was about the bad tempered, blue-haired beast that apparently rocked his world so.

 

Other than his physical appearance, what redeeming features did the enforcer really have? Ok, so maybe he was strong, reliable, gave a hundred per cent to his game, seemed capable of being a good friend (to Kensei at least).

 

But none of that counted for much when Grimmjow's personality against Ichigo's was like a belt sander on metal.

 

That was the other thing. Ichigo's mind was trying to solve the questions, endless though they seemed. What were his instincts doing, telling his body to lust after someone who had been so vile, so violent, so cold, who seemed to think so little of him as a colleague or even as a man? Did this herald the beginning of a love life full of poor choices? Was he a sucker for being treated like shit and physically attacked? Or, like his gut warned, did he really just bring it on himself because he liked that violent attention? Was he addicted to the thrill of seduction in its most vague and debased form? Both thoughts produced a small shiver, a slight discomfort, an acknowledgment that somewhere in the mess of thoughts rang the slightest bit of truth.

 

The only thing he really knew, was that right now he was lost. But no matter how today went, when he'd woken up this morning, he knew he was going to make at least one good decision today.

 

There was no way he was going to go into this with his dick leading the charge.

 

After the other night at the bar, he'd gone home to bed and relieved his tension, the whole experience leaving him breathless and gluey. He'd done the same thing last night, and upon waking this morning, groaning out loud as he'd felt _his_ version of Grimmjow pinning him to his bed, kissing him, and grinding their flesh together.

 

His version. But not really.

 

The two Grimmjow's, real and imagined, they were different but somehow the same. The one thing they shared, was in their core, something in the pause of his muscles when he drew close, the hesitation in his breath, the stillness of the air around him, the slight quiver in his top lip, like the weight of the world was suddenly crumbling down on top of him and he didn't know how to get out of its way.

 

It all came down to those tense moments in their clashes when Grimmjow seemed to stumble, like he couldn't decide what to do. Ichigo, though, he always went with his gut, and it was telling him now that if he wanted to discover what was drawing him to Grimmjow... _that_.... _that right there_ was where Ichigo's answer lay. For Ichigo, there was something about those moments. They were like standing in the eye of the storm. And that was where the truth lived, at the center of that indecision.

 

Well, Ichigo had made his own decision this morning.

 

Now he had a clear head again.

 

Ichigo hit the brakes of his car hard, eyes catching the signs beside him as they flashed into his awareness. “Dammit,” he mumbled.” He'd nearly missed the entrance. He glanced in the rear view mirror and blew out a ruffled breath. Good thing he came up a side street and no one was behind him.

 

He took a hard left from his stopped position, something metallic grinding out its usual complaint as he punched it over the shallow curb. He ignored it, pulling into the first visitor parking space he saw and letting the car idle for a minute.

 

Grimmjow had him thoroughly ruffled. He was getting so far ahead of himself. This was just _one_ strange attraction. A first. Maybe it would pass, and he'd be back to an unsatisfying dating scene before he knew it, for as long as it took.

 

Then again, maybe it wouldn't.

 

What if it was some sort of pre-midlife crisis? Then it would go away, and he could relax back into his unsatisfactory lifestyle.

 

Awesome.

 

But what if this stuck?

 

He dreaded telling anyone. And he didn't know who he _would_ tell. Shinji? No way. Too much of a loose cannon. Kensei might understand. From what Ichigo could make out, he seemed to be making allusions to it already. Ichigo thought back to his trip to the hospital and the bar...

 

You know what. Never mind. Good natured or not, the man was a veritable nest egg of torment.

 

As for his family...

 

Hold the bus.

 

He wasn't anywhere near approaching that particular mine field. They would be accepting. He was fairly sure of that. But his father was ten times the annoyance Kensei was. One bungled step at a time with Grimmjow was as much as he could take.

 

Speaking of bungled steps and minefields.... Grimmjow had invited Ichigo to his apartment.

 

Take a seat.

 

He didn't say in it. Just to it. The building lobby at least.

Ichigo locked his car (a pointless habit, because no one in their financially right mind would ever want to steal it) then glanced at his watch. Loads of time to spare.

 

With at least that small relief, he crossed the lot and wandered around to the front of the large building at the address he'd been given over the phone yesterday morning. As he did, he took a deep breath of winter air and giant swallow of reality. As much as his hormones wanted to fraternize with the enemy in some semi-definable physical way, they had other things to sort out first.

 

So... They'd managed to sit in a bar together and share a beer without any real hostility. It was a start, but the real work was just beginning. They had proven that they were capable of behaving in a civilized manner, but that didn't mean they actually liked each other on a level where they wouldn't find themselves tangled up in another dog eat dog fist fight over some stupid disagreement.

 

Ichigo pocketed his keys and craned his neck like he was scanning the rooftops for snipers as he rounded the front exterior of the upscale building. Instead, he inhaled more of the fresh winter air as he looked over the landscape around him, taking in the details of Grimmjow's territory. Treaty or no, it felt he was wandering onto enemy land, hoping to hash out the details of a cease fire.

 

Perhaps, Ichigo thought, viewing their “bonding” time as “work” was not the best approach.

 

It was still a challenge though, one he'd accepted to his core now that they'd broken the ice. They just had to keep to their promise. Kensei had given the duo one simple rule: Talk of hockey was strictly off the table until they figured themselves out.

 

It was ten minutes nine when Ichigo showed up at Grimmjow's apartment building and entered the spacious lobby feeling flat out anxious. After he identified himself to the guard at the concierge desk, he moved to the private side of the room to the use the intercom.

 

He scanned the numbers until his eyes fell on the small, printed set of initials that made his heart leap up and turn in tight circles before settling down again.

 

G

 

Rather, just the first initial was present. Grimmjow had told Ichigo what letter and number to look for. The guy didn't want strangers tracking him down and invading his privacy. Grimmjow had been oddly forthcoming on the phone, explaining to Ichigo that he preferred to keep his living space on the down low from the general public most of the time. He didn't like being bothered by unannounced visitors, especially ones he didn't specifically invite. But Ichigo was not someone he thought might come bouncing up to his door unexpectedly.

 

“You understand”, he'd said. And actually, yes, despite the mild pang of offense, Ichigo could relate to that. He'd changed his phone number four times since he'd graduated to the NHL, twice when the press had gotten a hold of it, and twice more when Shinji had cajoled him into giving it out to a couple of “nice” girls who turned out to have big plans for Ichigo... plans that involved future weddings and spending Ichigo's money. He had learned quickly to be wary of vultures like that. And of Shinji. The idiot.

 

Grimmjow wasn't joking around when he'd picked out his living space. Security was tight. When he'd entered the inner lobby to buzz Grimmjow's apartment, Ichigo had had to show his ID to the guard at the front desk and sign in as a guest of Grimmjow's. Then he'd had to sign an autograph for the man's son as well. He didn't mind at all. It made him feel a bit more welcome that he really was.

 

With a resigned sigh, Ichigo pressed the button to apartment 166 as he shifted from foot to foot. He waited in the lobby of the classy highrise complex with growing apprehension as he wondered how in the hell Grimmjow had managed to get so many sixes into his life. Ichigo could understand having a favourite number, but it was like the guy was obsessed or something.

 

No one in their right head could blame the orangette for his unsettled state of mind. They were back on their own again. No Kensei hand-holding this time. He was still trying to achieve the impossible, with a guy that was arguably, in every sense of the word, impossible.

 

And a lot was riding on this. For both of them. Ichigo had done some serious thinking. With how much Kensei had helped, talking to people seemed like a more palatable idea now. After the game last night, he'd gone so far as to seek _general_ advice from a few of his teammates, the ones who were most likely to keep Ichigo's questions on the down low. Shuhei had been a big help. Shinji too. Renji... somewhat. In their own way, they'd each helped Ichigo step outside of his bubble and see the bigger picture, see past the still-there canopy of their pent up angst, and gain a new perspective.

 

The things they said still rang in Ichigo's head, some of it making an honest kind of sense. If he could change one thing about his teammates' input, though, he would. The guys had their own weird way of being vague about things that had left him a sight more irritated than he would have liked to be.

 

“ _You're far more alike that you realize, Ichigo.”_

 

“ _You're both reaching for the same ring. And I'm not talking bout the Stanley cup. I mean the game. You're on the same side, remember? You'll get further if ya share the wealth a little, ya know?”_

 

“ _What you're both failing to realize, Chigo, is that there is more than enough room for both of you on this team. You're both equally important. You both bring something vital to the team. You just need to pull your heads out of each other's asses to see it.”_

 

It was _Shinjii's_ statement that seemed to have gotten stuck in a permanent loop in Ichigo's mind, and _Shinjii's_ delightful phrasing that was still irking him. Ichigo was convinced the smarmy blond had deliberately arranged his words suggestively just to get under Ichigo's skin.

 

Well, it was working.

 

He couldn't get the thought of Grimmjow's ass out of his head, or his head out of Grimmjow's ass, whichever the fuck it was.

 

At any rate, advice considered, Ichigo had come to the unshakable conclusion (again) that neither of them should leave the team, and that Grimmjow, though an animal and a pig at that, did indeed have a place there. The sexta performed an important role as their enforcer. He used fear to gain respect. And most of the time, that was what kept the rest of the team safe from illegal hits and free from major injuries. Because every player who dared take a cheap shot knew that Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez would be coming for them. And they knew he would inflict as much pain and damage as he could. Ichigo still remembered being witness to it on his behalf first hand.

 

In the end, Grimmjow really was their protector.

 

Ichigo just had to remember that. It would make getting along that much easier.

 

He may be a bastard...

 

He took a breath and pressed the button.

 

...But he was _their_ bastard.

 

As the intercom quietly dialed and rang, Ichigo glanced impatiently around the empty lobby.

 

He jumped like a skittish kitten when a loud static voice shattered the relative silence of the place and growled at him through the intercom.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“It's Ichigo. I'm...”

 

“Yer late. I'll be down in a minute.”

 

And that was that.

 

The intercom fell sharply silent again without another word, any protest Ichigo may have had dying on the tongue that sat dry and useless in his open mouth. Ichigo jumped on the only means of retaliation available to him at that moment, and that was to scowl at the intercom like it was the most obnoxious living thing on the planet, and not just the instrument that had reproduced its voice.

 

As the words sunk in, blunt irritation turned to confusion, and he clicked his tongue. The hell was Grimmjow talking about, late?

 

He double checked the time on the watch he'd been given when he'd graduated high school. If anything he was early. He'd left himself plenty of time to get here. In fact, he'd even turned back halfway down the hall from his apartment and quickly changed into clothes suitable for jogging because he knew, just knew, that regardless of being told to ease into exercise Grimmjow would want to ramp it up. And he'd still been on damn time.

 

Ichigo scowled as he dug into the bottom of his jacket pocket for his phone while he scanned the lobby. He had it in his fingers for a moment, but he frowned and let the phone drop back down as he spotted a clock. It rested high on the wall, above a large potted fern that squatted between two sets of wide, silver elevator doors. The roman numbered time piece read eight minutes past nine.

 

His eyes whipped to his wrist and Ichigo's scowl sharpened as he tapped the timepiece, a gift from his sisters that he wore nearly all the time. Still four minutes to nine. That wasn't right. He dove back into his pocket and opened his phone to triple check the time, determined to prove to himself that Grimmjow was being a total...

 

Bastard.

 

Ichigo felt his blood pressure rise in a mixture of premature irritation and denial. The premature part being that Grimmjow would never let the slip go. No matter how slight the offense, Ichigo could already feel those cool, judgmental eyes looking him over and finding fault once again. It would be just another opportunity to take Ichigo to task.

 

Alone, Ichigo huffed in semi-defeat and slouched against the wall, hands in his pockets, while he waited for the enforcer to swagger out of the elevator doors and start berating him in the lobby.

 

* * *

 

Less than two minutes later, the silver doors parted and Ichigo straightened, his heart stuttering in his chest.

 

As the bluenet stepped out into the foyer and stalked towards him, reckless brown eyes took in everything about the man, overwhelmed for a moment by that immoral combination of graceful motion and powerful build, all displayed so well in athletic gear that seemed to relax against his body like it sought to cling to every muscle. It seemed to hit him all at once, the loose pull of his dark navy track pants, the white shirt that left none of the smooth bulk beneath it to the imagination within the open jacket. He was damn easy on the eyes.

 

But Ichigo blinked twice when he noticed the bluenet's hands. They were covered by a pair of thin, black, fingerless gloves with what appeared to be fine white bones running down the back. They were outlandish, much like that shirt he'd worn their first time out, but fitting. He could almost imagine those hands crushing through the very bones they displayed.

 

His tardiness momentarily forgotten, Ichigo stared like he was seeing him for the first time. He seemed to embody the very spirit of a super villain from some comic book, cruelly untouchable, a deadly beast in a body built for seduction. Or destruction. But wasn't that the same thing?

 

He was indeed a sight that fed the senses.

 

But then Ichigo looked up, and it all vanished.

 

* * *

 

Grimmjow glared across the spacious lobby with curiosity and suspicion at the orange-haired man, who seemed to be in some kind of staring competition with Grimmjow's entire body, until those wandering brown eyes reached his face.

 

Grimmjow's expression was rather severe. He knew it.

 

If Ichigo thought he looked irritable and sleep deprived, then the kid was on the money.

 

Grimmjow had woken up in a twisted mass of sheets to his alarm on its fourth round of its – _Hey, asshole. The world is ending right now, so you'd better get your ass out of bed_ – screamathon, in ever increasing decibels. And he was pretty sure he'd spent more time _attempting_ REM sleep than actually getting any. In fact, he'd only managed to squeeze in an extra hour of sack time by crawling from his bed some fifteen minutes before Ichigo was due to arrive, giving him just enough room to piss and brush, eat a light snack for energy, dress, and stretch.

 

And then of course, there was that untouched erection from the exhausting trip-out his brain had taken him on when he'd tried to go to bed in the first place.

 

He growled under his breath.

 

Fortunately though, there wasn't a lot of room to think on it too deeply when he was busy focusing on getting himself ready on time.

 

And then Kurosaki had the nerve not to be.

 

Every impulse in Grimmjow said to go on the offensive and call him on his disrespect. But he knew he had to bite his tongue or they would, without question, get themselves into another kerfuffle.

 

But then, Grimmjow and tongue biting had never been fast friends.

 

“So, why ya late?”

 

It came out as a blunt stony growl as he neared the orangette, bloodshot blue eyes casting downward then up again, taking in the younger man's appearance. He hadn't intended to make a thing about it, but as soon as that light tenor had punched through the intercom and tunneled into his brain, the skin on the back of his neck had prickled with that unexplainable flare of heat only Ichigo could produce.

 

* * *

 

Ichigo's eyes narrowed. He felt a little bit disgusted with himself for what he'd done in bed this morning. Even though he tried not to let his mind fill with too many specific images this latest time around because he was starting to feel creepy, the thing that drove him was still the same.

 

But right now, ugh. He'd rather not have.

 

It was his only option though, and despite the current emotional backlash, he was glad he'd gotten rid of his tension. It allowed him to see things a little bit more realistically, the way they really were, the way he should see them. He had to deal with reality.

 

And yeah. Right now, reality and Grimmjow were both biting it.

 

“Don't even think about blaming me,” he huffed. “My watch stopped working.” He gave the watch an objectionable glare as he looked down and tapped it with a blunt fingertip, like it would somehow prove his point before he met Grimmjow's eyes again. “I think the battery's done.”

 

“Hn.” Grimmjow came to a stop beside him. “Didn't know people outside 'a retirement homes still wore watches. Sounds like a lame excuse to me, Kurosa...”

 

“Shut the hell up! I've _seen_ _you_ wear a watch!” The guard at the desk looked up, then down again. Neither of them noticed. “And it stopped, you dick! SEE?”

 

Ichigo had sworn to himself not to bite at Grimmjow's exceptional button pushing skills. And he knew he'd just failed. But now, without a head full of hormones, at least he had his game face on. He was himself again. He couldn't deny that some sort of attraction existed, but he could damn well ignore it if he needed to.

 

Grimmjow was nearly bowled over as Ichigo's watch, wrist, fist, and jacket sleeve, jumped into unfocused view, all of it quite solidly hanging in front of his face. All of it suddenly there and too much and too close. The bluenet clenched his jaw, and sharp canines flashed defensively as he leaned back, resisting the instinct to pop Ichigo one for it **.** Never mind that maybe he'd incited it himself.

 

He should be used to it by now. His aggression was on the rise. He could feel it, a rooted need not to appear as weak in front of the kid as he felt. He was always game for a squabble with Kurosaki. Yet, today, in the back of his mind there was an almost playful hunger woven into it all. Maybe he was just punch drunk from another rough night, but right now, in his presence, Grimmjow felt the need to jab and prod, anything to incite a reaction. He had no right words for it, except maybe... that he felt... prowly. He couldn't explain it without sounding like a lunatic, but somehow, winding Ichigo up was like playing with something that was his alone to play with.

 

“Alright already,” he growled, eyes almost crossing for a moment as he irritably swatted at Ichigo's hand. With a chuff, Grimmjow turned his head, reaching for his water bottle and taking a quick sip. When he glanced back, though he spoke, it was with half his mind, because the other half was wondering where this tolerance had come from where the spiky-haired boy wonder was concerned. If anybody else had done that...

 

“We'll stop and get ya a new damn battery then... after we finish our run.” Grimmjow gave him a curt nod, acknowledging that Ichigo looked the part and had obviously estimated Grimmjow's intentions. He turned away and took two steps towards the entrance, then stopped and looked over his shoulder expectantly.

 

Ichigo's retracted the hand that he'd nearly forgotten was still hanging up in the air, and his scowl turned to confusion. Had he heard that right? If they were going to buy a new watch battery, then that meant Grimmjow was taking him.... shopping. Yes, it was a minor thing but he only did that because he “needed” to do that. Right? It was a technicality. Ichigo knew he was just looking for clues and signs that Grimmjow might be developing some sort of soft spot for him. Didn't matter that he knew the enforcer would never look at him that way.

 

And the run part. Yeah, Ichigo had anticipated that. There was no way Grimmjow was going to hold back. Even Ichigo wasn't so stupid as to think the bluenet would waste time walking when he could be using it to push himself into readiness for his return. At least as he saw it. Brain injuries didn't heal because you pushed them, though. So, Ichigo was prepared to pace them, watch Grimmjow for signs of fatigue, and set him straight if and when the time came.

 

“Well, are ya comin' or not? They don't let people squat in the lobby here, ya know.”

 

Ichigo snorted his objection to the insult, but he still glanced down at himself and frowned. Maybe his jogging pants were a _bit_ baggy, but they were his favorite weekend pants. He looked up, eyes narrowed.

 

“Are you saying I'm dressed like a squatter?”

 

“Tch. Don't be so touchy. I'm playing.” Something flickered in Grimmjow's azure eyes as he gave him an appraising once over. “Ya don't look like shit,” he offered idly. He turned away again, moving towards the door, stride lazy. “S'that jacket new?”

 

“Hn?” Ichigo was still processing the the remark (was that an insult or an actual compliment?) but the question forced him to move forward. He started to follow. “Oh, yeah. My old one was getting pretty worn so...”

 

Grimmjow stopped and turned, a half amused look on his face.

 

“So, what? You finally decided to crack open yer wallet and trade up?”

 

Ichigo's expression fell flat, and he stopped. Okay. _That_ was an insult. And he couldn't just let that slide.

 

“Okay... Now you're calling me cheap?” he asked in disbelief, arms extended in a question. Grimmjow's head tipped to the side, and he shrugged.

 

“If the dilapidated piece of junk fits...”

 

Ichigo blinked. Then his expression soured.

 

“Are you seriously going on about my car? Again?” he asked, exasperation rising in his voice. Cool blue eyes settled on him without expression.

 

“Did you drive it over here?”

 

“No. I took my private jet,” he grumbled. “Oh wait. Don't tell me... you're concerned about my safety now? Ichigo rolled his eyes, folding his arms, and Grimmjow sneered.

 

“Tch. Not really. But I guess I have to apologize for calling you on being late.” Grimmjow's eyelids drooped. “I'm impressed you even made it over here at all.”

 

Ichigo's eye twitched, and he felt the hair on the back of his neck begin to prickle.

 

“Keh. Oh yeah?” His eyes went straight to the bluenet's hands pointedly. “Well... What's with those?” he sputtered angrily, giving Grimmjow's bone printed gloves his own retaliatory look of distaste. “You do _know_ Halloween was in October, right?”

 

Grimmjow smirked, still leisurely amused by his own comedic stylings and the fact that he could wind Ichigo up _without hardly trying_. He glanced down at his hands as if he didn't _get_ what Ichigo was talking about, then answered without much interest.

 

“Yeah, I do,” he replied blandly. The “duhhhh” was implied.

 

“Kensei got'em for me for a party last year. They're comfortable. Plus...” He raised an eyebrow and smirked. “They got me laid.” He brought one hand up and flexed his fist, admiring it from every angle before suddenly throwing a fake “right” straight at the heart of the orangette's semi-permanent scowl.

 

The random punch, to his shame, caused Ichigo to jerk in alarm. Which was not fair to his ego. ('Cause it wasn't like Grimmjow had never tried to hit him before, and all.)

 

Even though he jerked back, the leather of that gloved fist tickled the fine hairs of Ichigo's nose for the second that it hovered there, before it pushed up and forward, and gave him a light nudge in the forehead.

 

Ichigo blinked like an angry owl, for some reason incapable of doing anything more than that. Probably because the move seemed too awkwardly out of character for Grimmjow where Ichigo was involved. It might have been playful if it were anyone else, but he knew it was just a display of dominance guised as a friendly gesture. That idea made Ichigo's jaw clench.

 

Grimmjow let out a short but far too superior sounding chuckle as he withdrew his fist.

 

And Ichigo wanted to kick him in the nuts. Right then and there. ...Kensei too while he was at it.

 

He opened his mouth to say something scathing, anything to gain back some dignity. But Grimmjow's level gaze fell on him, and the bluenet carried on as if he hadn't made Ichigo flinch at the sight of his oncoming fist, giving up that no doubt delicious little bit of ground to his already bloated ego.

 

“You're a good sport, Kurosaki.” Ichigo stared, dumfounded. Was he? Had he passed some sort of insane test? Then azure eyes gave him another appraising once over, and he felt his stomach flutter.

 

“Tch. There wasn't anything wrong with the old jacket if ya ask me,” Grimmjow grunted. The comment came out oddly personal to Ichigo, like the bluenet had the right to have a stake in it.

 

“Yeah, well I didn't,” he replied flatly, shrugging past the bluenet and pushing through the first set of glass doors without looking at him. “And I'm not cheap where it counts, dumbass. I give my old clothes to charity before they wear out.”

 

Grimmjow followed on his heels and stepped neatly around him before he could reach the outer doors, blocking them both just enough to cut him off. It paid to have moves. And it was worth it to see him scowl again.

 

Despite Ichigo's tone, Grimmjow's nerves had actually settled a bit since he'd reluctantly left the elevator. The best way to pull himself out of his mood was to have fun with the kid. And it was working.

 

And as a bonus, he was thankful that Ichigo was too off balance to notice anything more behind what he'd just said, instead taking up the challenge. For all their fighting, Ichigo was pretty easy on the eyes. But commenting on Ichigo's clothes just seemed too much, like Grimmjow had... noticed things about him. And he couldn't have that. Ichigo might get the wrong idea, that Grimmjow liked him or something stupid like that. And then what? Ichigo might start following him around like some stray puppy. He smirked. Unlikely. But it was kind of a funny image either way.

 

“Hn.” Grimmjow looked thoughtful as he leaned against the doors. “S'not a bad idea,” he rumbled, a pinky finger rising to dig along the edge of the space in his ear. “I got way too much stuff. Could stand to get rid of some shit.”

 

Despite the look he was giving the blue-haired annoyance, Ichigo might have been impressed Grimmjow could be thoughtful enough to find some generosity in that ice cold heart of his... except that the bluenet's grin was nearly audible. Ichigo felt his mouth dry out as Grimmjow ran his hands down his chest, and tried not to swallow his tongue. Instead he rolled his eyes.

 

“Not too many people gonna fill it out right, though,” the enforcer grinned, that famous self assuredness rearing itself utterly.

 

Ichigo grimaced at the deep shudder that ran through him. That was no joke. Nobody could fill out a pair of sweats like Grimmjow could. For a moment Ichigo wondered, did Grimmjow really know how good he looked? Naked or clothed? He talked like he did, but did he really? Hell, if Ichigo looked like that he'd spend all his free time licking his own reflection.  
  
He turned his head away quickly and gave the metal bar that Grimmjow wasn't blocking a shove while the enforcer was distracted and practically fondling himself inside the lobby doors.

 

Ichigo swallowed and took a deep breath of winter air as it rolled in through the open door. He stepped back out into it and felt himself calm. It was a warm day at minus two degrees, considering it was January.  
  
Ichigo jerked as he was bumped not so lightly, unprepared and easily pushed aside as Grimmjow bullied his way through the same door instead of just using the one he'd had his hand on.  
  
“You standing in the way for?” he sneered.  
  
Ichigo couldn't help the look he gave back, his attempt at a bored stare coming off a little darker than he'd meant it to at the bluenet's very physical shove'em'around attitude. He wasn't in the least bit surprised, though. It was just like Grimmjow to throw his weight around as much as his mouth. And that large body of his... and his large clothes... Ichigo's face broke into a grin.  
  
“Heh. Good thing you don't have any old hats to give to charity.”

There was the shortest of pauses before blue eyes slid back up to him from the bottom step, confused and narrowed in suspicion.

 

“What?”

 

Ichigo jogged down the steps to the walkway, quick and light on his feet. He skirted past the bluenet, the enforcer's head swiveling like a hungry falcon to keep a displeased eye on him.

 

“Nothing,” Ichigo said quickly, his eyes already closed in a blunt dismissal that he knew would irk Grimmjow to no end. His brows were knit in concentration as he stopped and stretched an amply toned arm behind himself then swung both out to the side to get his blood flowing. Ichigo bounced on his toes a few times, rolling his neck for good measure. All to the sound of pre-eruptive volcanic silence.

 

“Are you warmed up?” Ichigo asked, listening intently for any hint of movement should he need to defend himself. One eye slid open, just in case.

 

“I was warmed up hours ago,” came the curt reply. “Now, what the fuck did...” Grimmjow cut himself off and squinted as a rare look of bemusement crossed his features before it abruptly wiped from his face. “Oh... Oh I see. I get it. I got a _big_ head. That's what yer sayin', right? S'that it? That's real funny, Kurosaki,” he growled.

 

Ichigo started to bounce on the balls of his feet again as he began jogging backwards down the walkway, mouth quirked into a grin he couldn't keep down, his quick retreating movements tempting the enforcer to follow suit. Offensive; Ichigo. Defensive; Grimmjow.

 

“Better than you've got,” he smirked.

 

Grimmjow cocked his head, something in the playful challenge of that smile disarming him of whatever random volatile comment had been brewing behind his sharp teeth. Ichigo wanted to keep playing. Alright then.

 

“S'that a fact?” he grunted.

 

“S'a fact,” Ichigo called back in buttery slang, a small rise in his shoulder signaling the pointlessness of pursuing the matter any further, since it was in fact... a fact.

 

Ichigo squelched a reflexive “eep” as the enforcer propelled himself forward towards him. The souls of the bluenet's runners lifted from the cold concrete in a hunter's silence as he moved towards and then suddenly past the orangette with that fluidity Ichigo still could not process, even after all this time.

 

“Oh yeah?” Instead of tackling him, the bluenet met Ichigo's eyes with an acerbic sneer as he passed him by. “And I'm gonna see your ass working the fuckin' crowd at the comedy club tonight?”

 

The rumbling tenor moved by him, flowing through him like a passing shudder. Like thunder. Irritated by it, but determined to ignore it, Ichigo turned on his heels to follow.

 

“Yeah, I'm on right after you get booed off stage,” he sneered.

 

Grimmjow glanced over his shoulder, eyes shifting to the corners, giving him a look that was as far from sane as any Ichigo had ever seen. It gave Ichigo a bad case of deja vu, not to mention a sudden case of the willies, and he nearly stopped. But to Ichigo's relief, the look didn't match the tone when Grimmjow spoke.

 

“Hah. So, you're gonna fork out enough to pay them all to boo me off? Not so cheap when it comes to me, are ya?”

 

Ichigo made a small choked sound of shock and outrage before he managed to grumbled a snarky comeback. He raised a skeptical brow to add that much more contempt to his comment.

 

“Feh. Like I'd have to. And you're sure your doctor said your head wasn't damaged?”

 

“Nope.” Grimmjow barely paused. “And I think that's generous of ya, Kurosaki. You're a sweet guy.” His sideways grin curved into what Ichigo was appalled to find he could only take as a leer.

 

“I think you need a second opinion,” Ichigo scoffed. “I'll pay for that too if you want.”

 

“Hah. Really shellin' out today, aren'tcha? And about my head or your sweet side?”

 

“About... wha-?' Ichigo squinted. His brain was starting to hurt. Grimmjow was starting to confuse him and it was better to just let it go. “How about you just shut up and run.” He took only a few strides in silence before the compulsion to fire off a retort at Grimmjow overwhelmed him and he ignored his own advice. “And at least I have a sweet side.”

 

Grimmjow didn't bother to even try to apply that same measure of self restraint.

 

“Fuck you. I'm totally sweet,” he chuffed, hands coming up, fingers to his chest. Grimmjow glanced back to see Ichigo roll his eyes in derision, though he didn't bother to look back up at Grimmjow. As predicted, the orangette was focused stubbornly ahead.

 

“Keh. And charming,” Ichigo muttered loudly. “Don't forget charming.”

 

Grimmjow barked a laugh, one that was genuine. Grimmjow was actually enjoying this rare and easy back and forth, despite the edge of danger between them.. in fact.. maybe even because of that. Ichigo was... never boring.

 

“See, now? We don't even need to hang out,” he rumbled as he moved. “You clearly know me inside and out.”

 

“It's easy when you're as layered as a piece of paper,” came the blunt reply.

 

Grimmjow snorted, the broad statement actually ruffling him a little. He didn’t lose the beat though, glancing across his shoulder again and sneering in as much good humour as he could.

 

“Tch. Try to keep up.”

 

“Keh. As if.”

 


	22. Chapter 22

Ichigo's breath was steady, even.

 

The burn light, manageable.

 

It was natural, what their bodies were doing, muscles coiling and uncoiling, hearts beating steady as they moved together, nothing on their minds but pushing through the pain to reach euphoria, just enjoying the feeling of being alive.

 

They were both moving in sync, a leisurely jog along the cleared sidewalk, Ichigo lagging one purposeful step behind Grimmjow, trying to pace him, his presence an invisible leash.

 

His position allowed him a slanted view of the side of Grimmjow's face and the edge of an almost smile. Or what he imagined might be. It was that, or a grimace.

 

Except for one final, and ultimately derisive snort from the bluenet, the last metaphorical word as it were, the rest of the run had been quiet, their steps and breathing light and measured. If they were trying to come up with things to say during their run, neither succeeded. But the silence this time felt right, even if a little fragile, like words would only shatter the dream.

 

It would have been beneficial to talk while they ran, a good way to gauge Grimmjow's endurance. But after their short exchange Ichigo felt a little spent, like the next words out of his mouth might not measure up and they might end up at each others' throats again. He really didn't want to ruin a good thing.

 

Despite the silence between them, every step forward felt like a small accomplishment.

 

They met with several fellow joggers on their suburban run, each person giving a nod of respect to the others' dedication as they passed them by. That sense of unity swept over Ichigo. It was odd... to be feeling more like a teammate with the enforcer on this one run than he had since they'd met...

 

They turned at the end of a side path and headed towards more wide streets lined with large empty trees and cozy snow capped homes. Grimmjow was leading them on a long circuit around the neighborhood, his neighborhood, Ichigo keeping him from pushing too hard, and Grimmjow letting him.

 

Though he didn't frequent it, Ichigo knew this part of the city enough to get by. Grimmjow's place was at the outer edge of one of the downtown core's more upscale bar districts, a nice balance, Ichigo thought, if you liked the late night scene, but wanted to keep one foot anchored in the low-key respites of suburban life. Whether the choice was by design or not, being perched at the cusp of the city's nightlife seemed perfect for someone like Grimmjow. And yes, he meant that in a predatory way.

 

Breathing only slightly heavier than normal, Ichigo slowed to a stop. Grimmjow had fallen into a fast walk moments ago, hands on his hips as he threw his head back and breathed out hard through his mouth. They had run for about fifty minutes, barely enough time to break much of a sweat at their level on a day like this. But he could tell Grimmjow was feeling it.

 

His breaths were audible to Ichigo, not harsh or heavy like he was in trouble, but fast and robust. He was clearly done for now. He picked up the pace again, though, and Ichigo followed as if towed in his wake. After less than a minute, his breathing calmed, and the bluenet eased out of the slower jog meant to bring down his heart rate more gradually.

 

He fell back to a walk, and Ichigo ended up beside him and glanced over, not really sure what to say other than the obvious.

 

“I feel fine.” Breaking the silence, Grimmjow grumbled an answer to the question Ichigo had so carefully not asked.

 

Ichigo let it pass for a moment, but then decided that since the dog was out of its kennel, he might as well go for it.

 

“Are you sleeping?” he asked, studying Grimmjow's eyes, even as the enforcer met his look with a mildly displeased glare. Dark half moons accompanied the fading remnants of the bruises that still stamped their way up his temple. He hadn't really taken the time to examine his face earlier. He mentally groaned. Of course not. Because he'd been far too taken with the rest of him, hadn't he? Well, he was noticing now.

 

“You're not, are you.”

 

Grimmjow tensed, but said nothing. When Ichigo only continued to stare at him, he huffed before finally answering with a half truth. It was the most he was willing to give. Ichigo didn't need to know what had kept him up.

 

Not any of it.

 

Grimmjow grunted. “Woke up a few times.”

 

“Ah. Headaches?” Ichigo dared. Grimmjow glared straight ahead as they walked.

 

“Tch. Didn't know I was your patient, _Doctor_ Kurosaki,” he growled. Ichigo stiffened immediately.

 ****  
“Don't call me that, you dick.”  
  
“Sorry. Doctor Ichigo,” the enforcer sniffed.  
  
“Keh. Irritability?”

As if he'd called them up himself, hell-fire blue eyes turned and fixed on the orangette, who stared _alm_ _ost_ innocently back, his own eyes stoic and stubborn. A strange expression crossed Grimmjow's face, a hint of distaste maybe, but he just shook his head and kept walking.  
  
It was a clear “hands up” motion, and Ichigo's pace stalled for a second, curious but still a little smug that Grimmjow would back down so easily.. or rather, at all. Though... he had... Ichigo's eyes narrowed... managed to avoid the question.

 

“Nice try by the way,” Ichigo called.

 

“ _Getting_ one.” Grimmjow's voice drifted back.

 

Ichigo rolled his eyes and caught up, and they made it to the end of the street before Ichigo began his relentless prodding again.

 

“Alright. So, you're good.”

 

“That's what they all tell me,” Grimmjow drawled.

 

Ichigo shot the enforcer a withering glare.

 

“Obviously they had nothing to compare you to.” Blue eyes narrowed, landing on brown.  
  
“Bitch.”  
  


Brown eyes snapped a challenge back.

 

“Asshole.”  
  
A second or two of strangely comfortable silence passed, and Ichigo spoke again.  
  
“So, what now?”

 

“Che. Watch.”  
  


Ichigo's brows lifted before he scowled, nose wrinkling in offense and shock. Grimmjow wanted him to do what? Of course, he was just joking around, but it still wasn't enough to quash a sudden blush of excitement. He grumbled. Loudly.

  
“Shut up! Why do you have to be such a pervert?” Grimmjow shot him a blank look. Then the enforcer's eyes came to life, a flash of disbelief morphing into excited amusement.

 

“Hah! Look who's got the kinky mind.” Grimmjow came to life then, twisting and punching him playfully in the arm. Sneering, “Bet you'd get off on that too, wouldn't ya, ya sick fucker.” And Ichigo actually staggered sideways from the force of it, Grimmjow grinning at him as he fought to stay out of the snowbank. ****  
  
“I meant your watch, ya deviant.” Grimmjow sneered, earning himself a growl which he ignored. “Needs fixin', don't it.”

 

“Keh.” Ichigo rubbed at the sharp throb in his arm where the enforcer's knuckles had dug in, at the same time trying to will away his acute embarrassment. His face was beginning a slow burn. He could feel it, even in the winter air. He wasn't sure what it was for more, the thought of watching Grimmjow having sex, or being disgusted with himself for going there. Either way, he was determined not to let Grimmjow see him sweat... and thanked whatever God may be that it seemed the bluenet hadn't noticed. He was back to looking where he was going now, and Ichigo was thankful for it.

 

“Can't have ya running late on me again tomorrow.”

 

“Not when you make every minute so enjoyable,” Ichigo did his best to reply blandly, still shaking the numbness from his arm as he realized what tomorrow was. “I can't, anyway,” he said irritably. “We have an away game tomorrow afternoon, remember?”

 

Grimmjow made a noise in his throat. He was loath to think he was so out of step that he couldn't even keep the team's schedule straight.

 

“And we fly out early.” Ichigo studied him with a small frown. “You're not coming, are you.”

 

“Hn? No. Team doesn't need me hanging around useless.” Ichigo ignored the self pitying comment. Seemed he had a spoon full of smallness for just about everyone. Even himself. But, besides making them both extremely uncomfortable, telling him he was important would only fall on deaf ears and put them at odds. Grimmjow just needed to realize it himself.

“Then you're on your own tomorrow. But I'm free until this afternoon, so I guess we'll just have to make the most of it.”

 

“Guess so.”

 

Grimmjow fell silent, and Ichigo decided to leave the next round of dialogue up to the enforcer. A distant expression had taken him over, suggesting perhaps he was thinking.

 

 _On his own._  
  
He'd always been alright with _on his own_. Just as content to act the socialite he portrayed as he was to bask in his own company. He could get a trainer, but there wasn't much point since pushing himself _that_ hard wasn't an option. And today had been good so far. Overall, Grimmjow was no worse for wear by his standards. Running had felt good for the first twenty minutes, then his head had started to ache, a dull throb inside his skull as his blood pressure rose. It hadn't progressed much beyond that, at least not enough to slow him down.

 

But damn Ichigo for being on the ball. He was sharp. Grimmjow kind of wondered if he shouldn't have become a doctor instead. He seemed so damned concerned and eager to take care of people. Was he like this with everybody, he wondered. Or was he just Grimmjow's burden. He hadn't noticed how Ichigo treated other people. Not at all. He'd had his blinders up from day one, just, shut him right out. How had he managed that so expertly when they'd practically been living together on the ice, and on the road?

 

The headache was nothing in the scheme of things. Grimmjow could remember clearly just how beaten to shit he'd felt back in the hospital when he'd first woken up. He felt like gold now compared to that. And that one minor ache wasn't enough to keep him from being aware of his surroundings. The entire time they'd been running, Grimmjow could hear the body just behind him, the soft pit pat of Ichigo's souls on the bare sidewalk, the sound mixed with breaths that were rapid but even and controlled.

 

His real discomfort wasn't so much a physical thing, but it _was_ a measurable thing, doing its steady climb towards the top of whatever scale discomfort was measured by. And that too was something he'd like to attribute to jogging, but couldn't.

 

He tried and failed to imagine it was anyone else, the bright eyesore of orange ghosting every now and then along the edge of his periphery where Ichigo bobbed and breathed at the helm of his shoulder. Behind him because their wasn't quite enough room for the two of them to run side by side on the small sidewalk with its intruding banks of snow. It was fitting. There was never enough room for the two of them. The difference this time, that Grimmjow was the one in front, and Ichigo was (at least in his little mind he assuredly was) protecting him. This wasn't the way it should be.

 

He was glad their run was nearly over. They'd hit the city and Ichigo would quit fussing over him.

 

They were just two short blocks to civilization, as Grimmjow saw it. If they went straight, they'd pop right out at the edge of the downtown core. This area was people friendly with outdoor markets and shops, even in the winter. And food. He should eat some soon, nourish his muscles after his workout, and he would if his stomach weren't being so uncooperative, sending out a few flutters, like queasiness, where it had formed a double-crossing alliance with his traitorous mind.

 

They worked their way down the road where homes gave way to businesses, and turned towards a slew of shops and a busy plaza, their first stop, an electronics store to slap a new battery into Ichigo's watch.

 

Grimmjow's stomach twisted again. It was all because of Ichigo at his back. Right there.

 

“Grimmjow! Watch it!”

 

The last time Grimmjow had checked, he'd been moving forward. And then suddenly, he was stumbling backward, a sharp wrenching on his arm the source of his unplanned change in direction.

 

The whoosh of cold air and deafening roar of a city bus flooded his senses, the thick smell of exhaust passing through his lungs and out again in a thick plume. And there was pain in his arm. He turned and glanced down before looking up into the face of one very agitated orangette. Ichigo's hold on the peak of his bicep was harsh, fingers curled into his hoody and digging through it to reach him in a crushing grip. It felt desperate.

 

Grimmjow's world snapped back into focus, realizing all at once what had almost happened to his body while his brain was off on vacation.

 

He'd thought he hadn't lost his situational awareness, but he'd been mistaken. It was back. Or it had never left... the sensation of going numb to practically everything around him when Ichigo was close to him.

 

And now he was yelling at him too. Grimmjow flinched and straightened. He seemed a little pissed.

 

“What's wrong with you? You nearly walked into a bus!” Ichigo was shaking his arm before he practically pushed it away.

 

“Yeah. That coulda hurt.” Grimmjow glanced out into the road and back, then gave a half shrug. Ichigo's eyes widened along with his mouth. Yeah. He was pissed alright.

 

“Holy shit, Grimmjow! Do you realize how close that was? That you could have died just now?”

 

“Yeah, well I didn't. Don't have a stroke, Kurosaki.”

 

“Seriously?” Brown eyes were filled with absolute fury. Totally out of proportion to the situation. Grimmjow was fine. The kid was such an emo.

 

“Thanks for the assist, alright? What the fuck do ya want from me?” he grated, exasperated. Ichigo blinked angrily.

 

“A reaction. A human emotion. Some sign of intelligent life!”

 

“Holy fuck'n shit, Ichigo. You wanna ratchet it up a notch and make a scene?” Grimmjow's gravelly voice wasn't raised much, but it had bite. If it were possible, Ichigo's expression darkened further.

 

“You know what. Forget you.” Ichigo turned and started stalking away. Just like that.

 

And just like that, Grimmjow threw his eyes heavenward, then bellowed at him.

 

“Get back here!”

 

To his astonishment, Ichigo stopped and turned, though the look he was giving Grimmjow had no room for error in it.

 

Grimmjow took a step towards him. He couldn't believe what was about to come out of his mouth, but something told him, if he didn't, his life was going to be that much harder. Fuck, was he gonna have to buy him flowers too?

 

“Look. I'm sorry, alright? I clearly scared the crap outta you because I tried ta catch a bus the hard way.”

 

“Don't joke about....” Ichigo shook his head, jaw clenching and unclenching, and Grimmjow's eyes narrowed. It wasn't like Grimmjow to apologize, and it sure as shit wasn't like him to root out other people's personal insecurities. But something had happened. As much as this was about Grimmjow's near untimely demise on Ichigo's watch, there was something else eating at the kid.

 

“C'mon. I promise ta keep my eyes open for the rest of the day.” Grimmjow tilted his head, palms open. Ichigo grunted, still not impressed. Grimmjow sighed, and held out a gloved hand. “If it'll make ya feel better, I'll even hold your hand while I cross the street.”

 

Ichigo glared at his hand, and that's when Grimmjow looked down and saw a streak of salt on the palm of his glove, where he'd _pushed_ off the snow and salt coated side of the bus. He hadn't even fucking realized he'd been that close. Now he did.

 

Grimmjow _was_ a little sorry. He didn't know why. Maybe because Ichigo cared on some level that he hadn't realized. And he was seeing it outside of hockey, plain as day for the first time. And that reminded him of Kensei all of a sudden. How he'd said the kid liked him.

 

For better or worse, the kid liked him. The whole idea was a little crazy. Grimmjow didn't care back anyway.

 

“Just shut up.”

 

Grimmjow glanced back up, and Ichigo was beside him, hands balled inside his jacket pocket. How he'd gotten there without Grimmjow seeing him move was alarming. The guy was brighter than a traffic cone.

 

Grimmjow's attention flew to the mess of orange locks, the only part of him that was apparently untrainable. It was a fantastic mess. It really was. So out of control and unstyled, yet it suited him to a tee. No matter how many ways Grimmjow looked at it, normal hair would never have looked right on the guy.

 

Dammit. Grimmjow's fist clenched. He'd almost stepped in front of a bus because he'd been so distracted by the man beside him, and here he was doing it again.

 

Ichigo checked the street for them and nudged Grimmjow in the arm with his shoulder before they jaywalked between a sizable lull in the traffic.

 

“C'mon dumbass. There's a store.”

 

Twenty minutes later, purchase complete, they were walking through the outdoor market. Ichigo had cooled off. There was no traffic around here for Grimmjow to walk into.

 

They were passing a chip stand when Ichigo touched Grimmjow's arm again.

 

“Do you want some? I'll buy.”

 

“M'not hungry.”

 

“Well, I'm starving. Are you sure you don't want something?”

 

“No.”

 

“We just jogged. You should eat soon.”

 

“I know that,” Grimmjow retorted, giving Ichigo a look that said, ' _was I born yesterday? No_ '. “I'm good for now. You go ahead.”

 

The smell of fries and burgers wafted over them. And at the smell of food, Grimmjow's stomach chose that exact moment to growl like he'd lost an exhaust pipe. Ichigo quirked an eyebrow.

 

“I can see that,” he deadpanned. Ichigo turned away, heading up to the vendor to order some lunch. If Grimmjow was going to be stubborn, he could suck it. Ichigo wasn't going to change his meal plan for him.

 

Truth was, Grimmjow didn't want Ichigo paying for anything. He didn't want to owe Ichigo anything else. Just owing his life was enough for one day.

 

Grimmjow waited to the side, staying away from the crowd of people who had been drawn out by such a comparatively warm winters day. While Ichigo chatted with the vendor and signed an autograph, Grimmjow scowled impartially at everything. Even the few people who nodded at the enforcer didn't dare approach him for a signature.

 

Ichigo meandered over to the bluenet and stabbed a batch of fries and gravy, twisting the melted cheese around his fork before finally finagling the first bite of poutine into his mouth. He hummed in contentment as he chewed and swallowed, a sound far more pornographic to Grimmjow's ears that it ought to be. He grit his jaw.

 

“Jesus, Kurosaki. Ya gonna eat it or make love to it?”

 

Unfazed, Ichigo swallowed down another bite and mumbled... “So good”. There was something extra comforting about the hot gooey meal on a winter's day. Somehow having both the poutine in his hand and the bluenet next to him as they began to stroll along the walkway had the affect of removing the chill that wanted to penetrate his skin now that he'd cooled from their jog.

 

He dipped back into his meal, the satisfying gooey warmth sating his hunger quickly.

  
“I know it's bad for you,” he mumbled around another mouthful of food, “but I have a weak spot for this stuff.”  
  
“Bad for you?” Grimmjow chided. “It's disgusting garbage.”

Ichigo shrugged, for once too content with his own business to be offended, and shoveled another batch of the hot, greasy fair into his mouth, making a point of swallowing then sucking the gravy off his fork with excess flare before digging in again.

“Mmm. Don't know what you're missing then.”

“If I eat that shit, I'll get a pouch.” Grimmjow's brows crinkled and his hand went to his stomach, patting it. Ichigo swallowed another bite, eyes shutting as he snorted his disbelief.

“You? Get a pouch? Yeah, right. You have a perfect body.” The moment Ichigo's brain caught up with his mouth, he flushed.

The silence was short-lived as Grimmjow barked a laugh.

“You would know, ya pervert,” he sneered, chuckling. “I seen ya lookin'.”

“W-what? When?” Ichigo cursed himself for the stammer, head dipping away as if he were searching the ground for answers, or perhaps a hole to hide in. “I mean... no! I mean... piss off, Jaegerjaquez! Everybody looks.”

Grimmjow tilted his head, expression contemplative, composed but for the barely their smirk.

“Yer gonna go down swingin', huh?”

It had been a while since Grimmjow had felt this perversely self-satisfied. He'd finally gotten a Jaegerjaquez out of him. That meant he was mad. He was kind of enjoying, in a sick way, that he could pull such strong reactions from his stubbornly prudish teammate. He tried so hard to keep up this good guy front, but Grimmjow knew there was more. 'Course he did. He'd seen it plenty. And he was going to enjoy teasing him until that shell of his cracked and out popped the Ichigo that he knew lurked underneath.

Ichigo looked like he was heading for a seizure, the way his body had tensed, jaw tightened enough to whiten skin.

“Hah!” Grimmjow barked. “I'm messin'. I didn't know.”

Ichigo felt his blood run thin as Grimmjow's arrogant grin broadened into a mouth full of teeth, eyes drawn into knowing slits.

“But I do now.”

Ichigo gave him a baleful glare, and Grimmjow simpered back before deciding he'd embarrassed him enough for now. It wasn't like Grimmjow's eyes didn't stray in the showers. What did Grimmjow care. He couldn't help but take in the details of his nemesis. He'd been looking for faults, weaknesses, but finding none, it irked him to no end. There had to be something, but no, everything was pretty fucking perfect on the younger man. Physically at least.

He knew Ichigo did it too. And whenever they showered, they had always looked away as they passed each other by. But it was another dirty paradox Grimmjow realized... just how much attention it took to pay him no attention.

“It's not like I try ta hide,” he mused, cocky grin springing back to life.

Ichigo huffed in relief. Grimmjow was such an ass, one minute teasing him like he'd caught him looking, like he knew, the next covering for him. What was he playing at, anyway? If he had to play games with somebody, he at least wanted rules he could understand. And if this weirdness was because of Kensei, Ichigo was going to demand his beer back.

“I've seen strippers who are shyer,” Ichigo agreed solemnly, before retreating back to his lunch.

The bluenet's grin widened until his stomach gave another low growl. Despite the very interesting conversation they'd been having, he was starting to think about finding some food now too. That smell wasn't really what was getting to him. Watching how much Ichigo was enjoying it was.

Ichigo was only halfway through when he stopped by a garbage can and paused. He looked at the half eaten pile of crispy well cooked fries, thick dark gravy and melted cheese curds. He'd ordered a large without realizing just how monumental the serving was actually going to be.

“Sure you don't want some?” He held the tray over the garbage can, waiting, but assuming he already knew the answer.  
  
“Yeah. Give it here.” Grimmjow stuck his hand out and lifted the tray from Ichigo before he could even offer it to him. Ichigo smiled lightly, and motioned to walk back to the chip stand.  
  
“We can go back and get a clean fo-... ” He stopped, mouth parting at the sight before him. Grimmjow was already digging in, forking a huge mass of melted cheese and fries into his mouth, eyes closing in bliss as the salty gravy hit his tongue.  
  
Ichigo sighed.  
  
“Do you not _want_ a clean fork?”  
  
Ice blue eyes glanced up in irritation, like a dog being disturbed and hovering over its food.  
  
“I had that in my mouth you know.”  
  
Grimmjow shrugged one large shoulder and resumed pillaging the savory fare, running the fries through with the prongs of the white plastic utensil, and chasing the cheese and gravy around the container.  
  
“Whatever, Kurosaki. You don't have any diseases, do ya?” Another gravy slicked fry and string of cheese were thrown back, Grimmjow walking on whether Ichigo followed or not.  
  
“No!” Ichigo cringed but kept pace.

“Then we're good.”

“God. Do you have any filters at all?” Ichigo was appalled at the thought, not because he would ever put anyone down for ending up stuck with something transmittable, but that to have Grimmjow think he might not be... clean, it just... it was the last thing Ichigo ever wanted Grimmjow to think.

“I'm big and I'm rich. I don't need filters,” came the half ass remark.

 

Grimmjow was more interested in the fat laden fair at the moment. If it was good enough for Ichigo, maybe it was good enough for him. He'd eat something healthy later.

 

**X X X**

 

Grimmjow had expected to have to work hard to leash his temper, but remarkably it hadn't come to that yet. He knew there would be sparks, their natural impulses inevitably leading to each of them mounting a verbal assault on the other. He just hadn't anticipated enjoying it. Not in the slightest. But without the immediate stress of the game on his back, he was finding Ichigo tolerable.

 

Brunch accomplished, and both men refueled, they let themselves move with the flow of the city, walking for awhile, stopping at stores, making small talk. Nothing deep. Nothing personal. It was like neither of them was ready to go there just yet. After an hour, the breeze picked up suddenly and it started to snow.

 

Ichigo checked his phone, searching the weather as they walked.

 

“They didn't call for this,” he muttered.

 

“Pfft. They never get it right,” Grimmjow grunted.

 

“If _we_ were that bad, we'd be out of jobs.” Grimmjow looked up and shrugged.

 

“We kinda are though, aren't we.”

 

Brown eyes met blue, and they couldn't help it. Both of them couldn't help but let out a little bubble of ironic laughter, a release of the tension that had been quietly building.

 

“You're breaking Kensei's rule,” Ichigo scolded, his mock stern expression making Grimmjow snort.

 

“Wouldn't want to piss the boss off,” he agreed. “So, how 'bout we find something to do inside before my hair gets wrecked.” Despite himself, Ichigo glanced up to see the spikiest parts of the enforcer's hair already starting to wilt from the damp snow. He shook his head.

 

“For a guy who wears a helmet, and sweats so much, I never would have taken you for such a prima donna.”

 

“I got an image to keep up.”

 

“What's that?” Ichigo snorted. “Poster boy or porn star?”

 

“Hmm. Yeah. And all 'round good looking NHL star and ladies' man.” Grimmjow thumbed his chest, and Ichigo took to looking nauseous.

 

“Oh my God. You're serious.”

 

“Keep working on it, Kurosaki, and one day, maybe you'll get there. C'mon. I know a place.” Ichigo rested a hand across his stomach as he dragged behind.

 

“I think my poutine's gonna come up...”

 

After a few minutes of ducking what were turning into heavy wet flakes, they found their refuge. Ichigo stopped and looked up at the sign.

 

“A bar?” he frowned. “It's only eleven am.”

 

“It's a pool hall. And it's after noon somewhere,” Grimmjow snorted. “Don't be a sissy.”

 

“I don't know what you take to be such an asshole,” Ichigo replied, anger covered over with bored indifference, “but it really works.”

 

Grimmjow squelched the urge to haul off and smack Ichigo upside the head. That was never a good move unless you actually _wanted_ to brawl. And he didn't. A bar wasn't very exciting, but he didn't want to admit he was actually feeling a little tired from their short workout, the only reason he wasn't pushing to do something more strenuous for the afternoon. The doctor said this fatigue shit would pass in a few days. It'd better.

 

“Che.” Grimmjow's cool eyes lingered on Ichigo for a moment, before he shook off the comment and led the way. They walked in, eyes adjusting to the low light quickly as they pushed through the double set of twin doors into the spacious hall.

 

“Damn. Still good?” Grimmjow reached up and touched his hair delicately. Ichigo sagged. He knew he was playing. He'd been doing it for the past hour, ever since Ichigo had lost his marbles over the bus. Trying to play things off light. He appreciated the enforcer's efforts, but still.

 

Ichigo groaned and shook his head in shame, but he looked up at the blue locks just the same. He'd wondered about it many times. And try as he might, he couldn't quite comprehend the complicated situation that was Grimmjow's hair. When he couldn't contain his curiosity any longer, he asked him.

 

“How do you get your hair to _do_ that?” Grimmjow led them across the open floor like he owned the large pool hall, or frequented it at least.

 

“Do what?” he asked with a skeptical sidelong glance.

 

Ichigo made a claw out of his hand and held it in front of his his forehead. Grimmjow snorted and grinned.

 

“Why would you wanna know?” His semi-suspicious scowl turned into a leering grin. “You wanna run yer hands through it, dontcha?”

 

Ichigo felt his skin warm. God, he hated how Grimmjow kept doing that to him. Neither of them had said a word about it, but once the bluenet had figured out that he could affect Ichigo...

  
“Is this supposed to pass as sparkling dialogue?”  
  
“Heh. 'Can I say? It gives me thrills to wind you up.”  
  
“Keh ...Being crazy isn't a competition,” Ichigo muttered.  
  
“Now, what I wanna know,” Grimmjow blathered on, “is how you get _yours_ to do _that._ ” He nodded at the bright orange explosion of hair that had been brushing back and forth like a lazy hay field in the growing breeze outside. Ichigo turned, perplexed.

“Do what?”

 

“That just been fucked look twenty four seven.” Ichigo cringed and tried to duck as Grimmjow reached out without invitation and used a heavy hand to maul Ichigo's hair. “You gel it that way 'er something?”

 

“No, stupid. It's natural. Get off me,” he grumbled, ducking away while batting Grimmjow's hand away. And it really did take that much effort just to get him off.

 

“What's natural? Yer hair, or just being fucked?” Ichigo had been tugging his jacket back down when he stopped, eyes darkening, not just an effect of the low lighting.

 

“One more shot, and I'm gonna kill you,” he growled quietly.

 

Grimmjow grinned. He was right. It was natural. Spiky, yet soft. Just like Ichigo.

 

**X X X**

 

That had been Ichigo's fatal mistake, showing Grimmjow how much he was bugging him. He had been like a kid with a big shiny red button ever since, hitting the damn thing over and over, just to hear it make a big “kablooie”.

 

“No. You gotta slide it through yer fingers.”

 

"That's what I'm doing!"  
  


"Not like _that,_ ya dipshit. Yer fuckin' killin' me,” Grimmjow groaned. He continued, his voice suddenly a rumble, dripping like wet rusty silk. “You gotta keep it _smooth_."

 

"I _am_ keeping it smooth," Ichigo grated, anything to sound the complete opposite of his ill-bred companion.

 

"Bullshit," the bluenet grunted, a grin forming. "You jerk it around any _more_ and yer balls are gonna shoot all over the place."  
  
Ichigo gave him the steeliest stink eye he could imagine, and tried several more times to slide the long pole through his fingers smoothly, while also keeping it straight. A difficult task, considering the person who was staring at him.

Grimmjow watched, finally giving a disgustingly bored yawn, and leaned cross legged with one arm bent at the wrist against the table.

"If that was my dick it woulda gone off by now," he muttered.

 

Ichigo's stick jolted and slipped off to the side. He landed hard, elbows skidding against blue velvet. And the white ball he'd been aiming for sat untouched, still and mocking. From his precariously low slung sprawl across the table, Ichigo's head came up like a fast growing flame, a vengeful glare the only thing properly crossing the table. And then he broke.

 

“You asshole! Don't say shit like that to me when I'm trying to shoot!” he fumed, pushing himself up, palms splayed against the table **.**

 

Grimmjow grinned darkly in return, expression turning ominous as he chalked up his cue with slow vengeful purpose.

 

“Whut? My dick a problem for you?”

 

“Yes! It's a big problem when I'm trying to.. to...” Ichigo reddened. “Goddammit!”

 

Grimmjow shark grinned at him, and Ichigo felt like he needed air. Lots and lots of air. No matter how many times he'd seen it, that half manic grin was just as daunting as ever. Like an entire pack of wolves was snarling at him. Ichigo folded his arms and glared across the half empty bar.

 

“You know what? I'm not talking to you anymore.”

 

“Tch. My heart's gonna break. But alright. If that makes ya feel better. Guess I'm up again, huh?”

 

Ichigo nearly broke his new rule, but a familiar tune dragged his attention over to the phone in his jacket pocket, where it had been dropped on the vacant table next to them. There were only a few tables being used in the large pool hall, but a fair number of patrons had already been drawn in for the lunch special on the bar side. The sounds of upbeat chatter could be heard over the mix of light rock and dance music.

 

Ichigo flipped his phone open and answered, knowing by the caller display who it was.

 

“Hello.” Ichigo turned away from their table, feeling a little self conscious, and wondering why Kensei would be calling him when he knew he was out with Grimmjow.

 

“Hey, Ichigo. How's things?” He could hear the ear to ear grin from the winter haired man.

 

“I want my beer back,” he said flatly. There was a chuckle on the other end.

 

“Already drank it, buddy. What's the matter? Is Grim not talking to you?”

 

“No. It's not...” Ichigo turned away and hissed into the phone. “He won't _stop_ talking.” There was a lengthy pause before Kensei's lilting voice came through again.

 

“Oh rrrreally....?”

 

“Yes. Really. Why do you sound so...?”

 

“That's great! Means he likes ya, Ichigo. You're doin' something right. Keep it up!” Ichigo's stomach took a sudden tumble, and the next thing he heard was a click. He blinked at his phone, unable to do much else but feel like a tragic victim, ambushed and caught in Kensei's web of support.

 

“Who you talkin' to over there?” Ichigo started, as if Grimmjow could have heard the other end of that conversation. He shut his phone off and tucked it away.

 

“No one.”

 

“Hn. Why all secretive n shit? And yer blushing, did ya know that?”

 

“I'm...”

 

“It's a chick ain't it. Ya finally got one on the hook, dontcha.”

 

“No.”

 

“Or... was it that girl that Shinji found ya?” Ichigo couldn't make out if Grimmjow sounded approving or disapproving, but either way, he regretting mentioning Shinji's double date idea earlier. He'd let it slip during their first game of pool, partly to throw Grimmjow off his case about his lack of skill, and partly because he'd wanted to sound like he had prospects, but... with Grimmjow, if she was hot and not too “choppy at the mouth”, as he put it, then she was in.

 

“I'm still not talking to you,” Ichigo groused. He glanced at the table. “Is it my turn?”

 

Grimmjow ignored him, playing instead with the phone he'd produced from his pocket.

 

"Hey.” Ichigo frowned. “I'm talking to you." Grimmjow didn't bother to look up from where he leaned against the empty table.

 

"You're not supposed to be," he said mildly. Ichigo squinted one eye.

 

"What?" Grimmjow deigned to glance up at him, thumbs still moving across the screen of his phone, shrugging with indifference.

 

"You're still angry, remember?"

 

“I'm not... angry.” Ichigo grabbed his cue and cased the table, eyes fixed on the balls, looking for something to shoot, whether it was his turn or not. “I just feel healthier not talking to you.” Grimmjow finally looked up, the slight tilt to his head giving Ichigo the shivers... but he wasn't sure why.  
  


“Really? I thought you liiiiked me, Kurosaki?”

Ichigo stared a moment, expression appearing blank were it not for the skin across his face tightening slightly. The corner of his eye twitched once in spasm. He couldn't take it anymore.

“Kensei,” he growled, palms tight around his cue, the wood begging for forgiveness as it bowed under the pressure.

Grimmjow cocked his head as only he could and chuckled without sound, the motion of it still reaching his shoulders.

“Who else?”

“That dirty bastard,” Ichigo grumbled. He relinquished his two-fisted grip on his cue and resumed stalking around the table. “He's a shithead for that, you know.” Grimmjow shifted his ass and leaned further back against his own table, resting his hands around the cue twined between his crossed legs.

“He prefers Captain Shithead.”

“Tch.” The corner of Ichigo's mouth twisted. “And believe it when I say I'm trying,” he added flatly.

“Heh.”

 

Scowling, Ichigo leaned over, thrust his cue forward hard, and sunk a ball. It was not one of his.

 

**X X X**

 

He couldn't fathom how the great Kurosaki Ichigo, supposed famed high scorer, could possibly be as inept at pool as he seemed to be. People at their caliber, with their sharp reflexes, heightened senses, and natural athleticism, tended to excel at sports in general. But Ichigo sucked. In fact, he sucked so spectacularly, that Grimmjow had conceded to let him have a freebie shot every time he missed. As would be expected, Ichigo being a man with degrees of pride that Grimmjow was beginning to get a handle on, it did not go down well. But after one round of the torturous game on even ground, Ichigo ate crow and took the deal, and allowed Grimmjow to rack em up again.

 

They were already on their third game. Ichigo would not give up so easily.  
  
"How did you ever _not_ learn how to play pool?" he queried, brow set in a pose of disgust.   
  


"I just didn't," the orangette retorted flatly. Ichigo was blushing like a scarlet sunset as he bent over to take his shot, a strained expression on his face from the effort he was putting into lining up his shot. It was entertaining, but right now Grimmjow was more interested in an answer.

"Didn't how?”

 

The chalked tip of the stick hit the cue ball with a small crack. And the ball flew over the edge of the table. Ichigo watched with a morose expression, shoulders lowered and tense.

 

Grimmjow wandered around to the next table, which he knew Ichigo was thankful was empty, and bent low to retrieve the ball from beneath its edge. When he stood, Ichigo's eyes were fixed on the cue in his hand, but he swore they'd been locked on him a moment ago. He could feel it.

 

“I didn't really have time between hockey, school, and the clinic to hit a lot of bars,” Ichigo said flatly. “But I'm guessing you did.”

 

“Che. Ya gotta make time for that shit,” Grimmjow chided. “Live a little.” He placed the white ball on the table, and gave it a flick with his finger.

 

“I liked my life the way it was.” Ichigo caught it and replaced it so he could shoot again. His freebie. And if he imagined that he was only referring to living his life without a simple game of pool, and if he discounted how lackluster his dating life had been, and how lonely he was feeling now, then it was at least partly true.

 

“Running home from the rink ta study?”

 

“Education was important to my dad,” he said seriously, before rolling his eyes. “And just because I didn't hit up pool halls and hookers doesn't mean I didn't have a life.”

 

Ichigo watched the blue-haired male, who _seemed_ to be paying more attention to placing the cue ball in the perfect spot than what Ichigo was saying to him.

 

“Oi! I've never paid for it,” he grunted, tone harsh enough to make Ichigo feel its impact. He flinched, expecting more, but Grimmjow remained focused on his game.

 

“Well, what did ya do with that life 'a yours then, Kurosaki?”

 

Ichigo watched as Grimmjow lowered his line of sight so he could line up his shot, cue drawing back. He felt like he might actually be starting to _get_ the ill mannered enforcer. He had an acidic way of asking questions, commenting on things like he disagreed with them but wasn't entirely interested either, everything water off his back, until he blew a fuse of course.

 

Ichigo supposed that _this_ was just Grimmjow's way of asking about his home life. He supposed. He leaned on his cue as he waited with very little excitement for his turn to come around again. If Grimmjow would ever stop sinking the stupid balls.

 

“I spent time with my family,” Ichigo answered. “I have two kid sisters. We did, you know, normal stuff.”

 

“Like what?” Grimmjow grunted, glancing up. “What's _normal_ in the Kurosaki household?”

 

Now that was a loaded question. Grimmjow cracked his neck, squinted, then snapped the cue forward. Ichigo frowned before he elaborated. His tone was acerbic, and Ichigo found it fitting. His sisters were his pride and joy, but they could be... as bipolar... as any woman Ichigo could think of. And his dad was a good heart, a brilliant doctor, but a total cracker.

 

“We ate dinner together, played sports, went on trips, supported each other... sometimes we fought... “ Ichigo felt his emotions rising out nowhere. It had been a long time since that had happened. He finished quickly. “...the usual family stuff. Same as you, I'd guess.”

 

“Only child. I didn't have kin ta fight with, so instead I fought with the neighborhood.”

 

Ichigo felt himself cringe. Grimmjow was being serious.

 

“Uh... What about your folks?” he tried, hoping to keep the subject off of his own family for now, while learning more about Grimmjow's. “Your mom seems nice.”

 

“She's good... yeah.” Grimmjow stood abruptly, abandoning the shot he was about to take, and leaned his cue against the table, expression tighter than it had been only moments ago. “Imma get a drink,” he mumbled, moving already, eyes locked on the bar across the room. “You want somethin'?”

 

Ichigo watched him, staying his tongue about the alcohol. Grimmjow knew what he was doing.

 

“Uh... No. Thanks.”

 

**X X X**

 

Grimmjow had returned with a drink in a few short minutes, and the two professional athletes continued on with their very unprofessional game of pool. But Ichigo wasn't long to notice that something was different, besides the quickly downed beer. The enforcer had grown considerably quieter, the few jibes he threw Ichigo's way, a pale version of his earlier self. Ichigo left it, instinct warning him that as curious as he might be about the change in Grimmjow's disposition, questions weren't going to be welcome.

 

They were another tedious game in and Ichigo was starting to think about calling it a day. He had things to take care of later this afternoon, including dinner with his family, before heading home for an early night to pack and rest up for his game tomorrow.

 

Ichigo was watching with a casual scowl as Grimmjow sunk his fourth ball in a row, a flicker of light and movement in the entrance way catching his eye as a single patron slipped out, when a small commotion brought both of their heads up. The high pitch sound of a waitress in distress.

 

“Oh no! Seriously? Dammit!” The young lady was standing by one of the tables nearby and looking around, her frantic scanning of the bar turning to a hopeless sound. The back of her hand came up to her mouth as her breath began to hitch. Ichigo straightened and frowned, exchanging a glance with the scowling enforcer.

 

“Fucker,” he grumbled.

 

No doubt about it. It was a standard dine and dash. The girl, obviously new at her job, was nearly sobbing, though to her credit, she summoned up some impressive language in between worried tears. Grimmjow prowled past several tables towards her, and she started for a moment at his intimidating approach.

 

“Did you get stiffed?” he growled.

 

“Was it a guy with short blond hair?” Ichigo called over.

 

“Y-yes,” she called back, leaning sideways to see around the bluenet's large frame. Grimmjow looked back over his shoulder, eyes hard and unforgiving.

 

“I think I just saw him go out the door,” Ichigo replied, already turning to snag his jacket and wallet, heart picking up a rhythm that had nothing to do with the weasel he was about to go after. Damn those eyes. He hadn't seen that in awhile. He missed that look.

 

A rush of something big blew past his peripheral, and Ichigo cursed.

 

The enforcer was out the door before Ichigo had made it two steps. Shit, he was fast. A blur of blue and attitude. Ichigo sighed as he followed. He almost hoped the poor idiot would get away with someone like Grimmjow on his heels.

 

“Be right back,” he called to the girl as he twisted backwards and pushed out the first door. Ichigo burst out into the street and blinked hard against the light, that much brighter against the snow even under the cover of clouds. At least the snow had stopped. He looked quickly in both directions and saw... nothing. He expected to see Grimmjow hoofing it down the street, but only regular pedestrians and traffic greeted him.

 

“The hell...?” He jogged a few paces down the sidewalk to the street corner and looked around. Nothing. Sighing, he turned and started to jog back towards the bar to do the same thing in that direction.

 

“You see him?”

 

Ichigo looked ahead past the bar, eyes finding the owner of the voice that had carried down the block with ease, surprise and for some reason relief hitting him. Grimmjow was slowing from a jog of his own.

 

“Grimmjow. No. You?”

 

“Fuck no. Shit's long gone,” Grimmjow grunted as they caught up to each other in front of the bar. “Probably took off running, the sleazy fuckin' coward.” Ichigo hummed his mutual disgust. Then he gave the bluenet an unsure look.

 

“Did you even know who you were looking for?”

 

“Fuck, yeah. I remember seein' him,” the bluenet grumbled, a look of surprise on his face fanning into irritation. Ichigo just nodded agreeably. That was a good thing. He'd been half afraid Grimmjow would grab the wrong person, and in his current mood...

 

“You thought I was just gonna grab some poor fucker and start beating on him?” Blue eyebrows had drawn tight together, and Ichigo felt his throat begin to dry out.

 

“Keh. Of course not... ” But he was kind of wondering if Grimmjow was going to start now... Ichigo escaped the steely blue eyes, letting his gaze scan down the other side of the street. The indisputable presence in front of him was affecting his breathing as Grimmjow loomed there, the enforcer's head tilting while he seemed to considered him for an uncomfortable moment.

 

Never giving Grimmjow an inch before, and with no plans to start now, Ichigo straightened his back, pulling out his wallet and producing a twenty dollar bill while looking back towards the doorway.

 

“I'm going to go settle that asshole's tab. Or else the waitress will probably get stuck with his bill.” Grimmjow seemed to lose his grip on his scowl at that.

 

“Hn. Well that's nice of ya,” he grunted. “Here.” He fished into his pants pocket, drew out his wallet, and produced two twenties. He thrust it at Ichigo expectantly. “My half.” Ichigo studied the bills for a moment, a flare of annoyance reaching his voice.

 

“I'm sure it couldn't be that much.”

 

“Plus a tip for her troubles,” Grimmjow deadpanned. Ichigo felt his lip twitch, not sure whether to protest or laugh. Grimmjow wasn't going to pass this opportunity to one-up him, even if it was for a good cause. He sighed.

 

“Fine. You impress the girl and I'll get the... ”

 

Ichigo stopped mid sentence, aware that Grimmjow was no longer paying him the slightest bit of attention. No. He was staring across the street, looking very unimpressed. Ichigo turned to look.

 

Grimmjow groaned internally. He had wondered if this might become a thing. And apparently, it had. He had spotted the van pulling up across the street. A news crew. The local station was located downtown so it wasn't anything special to see a crew roaming the streets, but the timing was pretty impeccable in Grimmjow's opinion.

 

“Oh, hot diggity dog .” Grimmjow growled, rolling his eyes as the men made their way across the street towards them. “I bet you a hundred fuckin' bucks that fucker's been tailing us,” he grumbled to the side.

 

“What? Since when?' Ichigo scowled back at him. “And why the hell would he follow us?” Grimmjow snorted, cool blue eyes mocking.

 

“Come on, Ichigo. Wake up. We're news.”

 

He almost wanted to ask why, again, but of course he knew the answer. He'd seen most of the local news clips about their team, and about the two of them. His old man even collected them. But it seemed they were in the public's stream of consciousness more than he'd realized.

 

X X X

 

“I don't do on-the-spot interviews,” the bluenet growled firmly.

 

He hadn't particularly snapped at the man, but his voice carried a clear warning that sent the reporter bolting straight to the relative safety of Ichigo.

 

The man was clearly hungry for a story of some kind if he was hassling the two of them on their day off. Maybe it was a slow news day or something. Ichigo's mood was actually fairly light today, given his company, so he shrugged his agreement and obliged the eager reporter, willing for now to entertain the man's questions. He wanted to give him some credit, hoping he was just looking for a comment on the recent game they had won, since it had ended their long streak of misery. But somehow he doubted it.

 

“Can you tell the people what it is about you two that makes you fight with such passion?”

 

Ichigo cringed at the strangely worded question, but he tried his best to answer as neutrally as possible.

 

“Well, not really. But we're putting the effort in and just trying to work out our issues,” the orangette stuttered, looking directly at the reporter and avoiding the lens of the camera. Normally, cameras didn't really phase him, but this particular issue was something of a delicate thing. Their feud had settled down to a comfortable simmer and he didn't want to say anything to fan the flames.

 

“Right. Since his injury, you and Jaegerjaquez have been spending a lot time outside of the rink, right?”

 

“Uh, yes.”  
  


“And is all this time alone together helping you two get to know each other?” Ichigo frowned. Sometimes reporters asked the stupidest questions, but this guy's wording... rather, something in his tone was making Ichigo tense up.

 

“It's to help us work together better on the ice,” he corrected.

 

“Well, it looks like you're getting along like Bert 'n Ernie now.”

 

“Yeah well... wait... what?” Ichigo's eyebrows climbed before retreating down into a confused frown.

 

“So, is this a date?” the man pushed.

 

Ichigo gaped, startled by the question which he was sure he didn't just hear.

 

“A... date? What?” Ichigo repeated stupidly, sharp scowl covering a rush of offended confusion. “I'm not... He's not... What the hell is wrong with you?”

 

The man straightened, keeping up his professional appearance, and spoke firmly into his hand held mike.

 

“There's been some talk of you two spending a lot of time together outside of the rink. Frankly, some wonder if your fights were actually lover's spats.”

 

“... ”

 

Ichigo only blinked. The guy just said what now?

 

The man shoved the microphone towards Ichigo's chin and waited expectantly for his soundbite. When it was apparent that none would be forthcoming, he pressed.

 

“Are you and Jaegerjaquez sleeping together?” Like a sword, he drove the mike forward again.

 

Ichigo's jaw nearly landed on the head of the sensitive device on its downward plunge towards the pavement. He was so not expecting this line of questions. And his stomach was doing a land speed record as it spiraled down into his toes.

 

Up until then, Grimmjow had stood silently, leaning with folded arms against the brick wall next to the sidewalk and scowling off to the side as the reporter grilled his orange-haired teammate. It didn't even look like Grimmjow was paying attention to the impromptu interview, but at that, the bluenet suddenly came to life. Both eyebrows shot up in a furious race to his hairline at the far too personal question, and suddenly Grimmjow was up in the slight reporter's face.

 

Ichigo was stunned at the bluenet's appearance. Grimmjow wasn't just fast. He was sudden.

 

“Why dontchu you ask yer mother that for me, asshole?” The question came out as a menacing growl.

 

The blue-haired enforcer made an obscene kissing sound and bared his teeth viciously, pushing his broad upper frame into the reporter (who had suddenly blanched) until the paling man was forced to back up.

 

Ichigo needed to regain control of the situation. Grimmjow had insinuated himself smoothly between Ichigo and the nosy reporter, and Ichigo was left staring at the back of his tall frame. Grimmjow had his arms down by his sides, but his threatening stance would've scared the shit out of any sane person. He was seconds from losing it and grabbing the reporter. That would be assault, and Ichigo had no doubt that the slimy little man wouldn't hesitate to press charges, if for nothing that to create a titillating story and gain himself a lot of attention. “Violent enforcer attacks reporter”, would certainly make exciting headlines.

 

Ichigo finally found his limbs and his voice, and he reached out to pull Grimmjow off the man before he could actually assault him. His hand found purchase on the large bicep of Grimmjow's right arm, his palm cupping over the quivering lump of tense muscle. He could feel the strain and the heat of his skin blazing through the thin fabric of his shirt. It seemed to travel into his palm and race up his arm, giving his heart a burst of energy. It was suddenly difficult to focus on the situation, no matter how serious it was becoming.

 

“C'mon Grimmjow. Let him go. He's an idiot with nothing better to do but make up crazy stories.”

 

Grimmjow spun around and ripped his arm free from Ichigo's hold.

 

“...fucking touch me,” he grumbled. Grimmjow growled in his head. What was Ichigo thinking touching him like that? The last thing they needed to do was provide the reporter with a hands-on shot.

 

Grimmjow didn't stop to speculate over the slightly wounded look that flashed across Ichigo's brown eyes as he passed him by and stormed off down the sidewalk. He needed to remove himself from the situation before he really lost his temper.

 

**X X X**

 

He was fully two blocks away by the time he felt the chill air of the winter's day reach his awareness and realized he had forgotten his coat inside the bar. He stopped in the middle of the relatively quiet sidewalk, glanced upward, and sighed. Dammit.

 

He really didn't want to walk all the way back there and risk running into that reporter again. And Ichigo. Oops.

 

The bluenet felt his shoulders sag. Aww shit. Ichigo had really saved him from himself just now. The firm grip on his arm had distracted him, and combined with Ichigo's words, Grimmjow had managed to back himself down. It wasn't easy, though.

 

That fucking _guy_ was so far out of line that he deserved a serious shot in the face at minimum. It wasn't so much the topic that had set Grimmjow off. The real issue was the gossip mongering, the lies about him, the fact that what the reporter was insinuating was completely fucking wrong. Grimmjow didn't like to be seen as anything other than what he was. If it were true, and if it were in fact anybody else's fucking business, he would have owned up to it. He didn't really care if by some fluke he found himself one day liking men instead of women. Going with his natural instincts had always just been his way, and he was never going to change that.

 

He was true to himself or he was nothing.

 

Besides, if he were into that, being on a date with Ichigo wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

 

He uncurled his fingers and crammed his hands into the loose pockets of his sweats and pivoted on one foot, about to head back towards the crime scene to retrieve his jacket, and perhaps find Kurosaki, and perhaps apologize, in the way that men do, by offering to buy him a beer the next time they went out.

 

One pivoted step into his journey was as far as he got. His eyes were fixed on the presence moving toward him down the sidewalk.

 

Kurosaki was dropping out of a light run and into a saunter, jacket in tow. The orangette wasn't even breathing hard as he cocked his head and smiled in a tentative way, like he wasn't entirely sure where they stood.

 

“I grabbed your jacket,” he offered, filling the silence that Grimmjow seemed unable to break. He was too busy standing there catching imaginary flies in the dead of winter with his mouth.

 

“Uh... thanks. I owe ya,” he finally answered quietly, a bit humbled that Ichigo had gone out of his way for him, even for something as silly as a jacket. “I didn't mean ta.... “

 

“What?” Ichigo balked, raising a hand and shrugging Grimmjow's apology off before he could even finish.

 

Like the weather in the city, Grimmjow's eyes turned cold and angry, finding their way to the pavement as his fists tightened. Ichigo stopped short, not sure what part of the encounter was causing the emotion, but hoping it wasn't aimed at him. He felt like he'd done something wrong, and even though he smiled, his guts were fit to be tied.

 

“It's just... I was gonna put him through the fuckin' pavement...” Grimmjow glanced back up, the storm that had flashed into being now tipping towards regret. “I don't care what a stupid fuck like that says about me. But he had no right getting into your business, sayin' shit like that about you.”

 

Ichigo met his anger with a half smile and a shrug.

 

“Who cares though, right?”

 

“You really okay with that kind of bullshit getting around? People talk.”

 

“Let them talk then. But it doesn't matter, because he won't.” Grimmjow's brows lowered quizzically. “The guy decided he had more important stories to run,” Ichigo smirked. “I made sure of it.”

 

Grimmjow felt the corner of his mouth pull up into an impressed sneer. What the hell had he done? Knowing Kurosaki, it was a clean move, nothing bad enough to bring on the heat, but perhaps enough to put real fear into that smarmy reporter's bones. Or, maybe he'd just sweet talked him. Ichigo did seem to have a talent for sweet talking when he really wanted something, especially when it came to Grimmjow. Now _that_ was a laugh.

 

They both began to walk, steps falling comfortably into sync.

 

“What'd you do?” The bluenet looked sideways down at his partner, skeptical blue eyes narrowed and searching, full lips thinned.

 

“Can't say.”

 

“Why not?” Ichigo smirked without looking up.

 

“I might need to use it on you sometime.”

 

Grimmjow snorted, a full on grin replacing his tense expression. He was genuinely curious, but he didn't ask. The cryptic answer was good enough for now. And he realized that he'd learned something else about the younger man beside him. It was possible, maybe, that Kurosaki Ichigo was someone he could trust.

 

.......................

**NOTE : I must attribute one line in this chapter to the late wrestling announcer, Gordon Solie, the man who originally said: “he's not fast, he's sudden.”**

 


	23. Chapter 23

Grimmjow watched with a morose sense of foreboding as the dark blades made another long sweep across the broad windshield of his car.

 

The rubber wipers combined with the heat blasting inside the car were clearing away flakes that were melting almost before they landed. And each swipe gave him a clearer view of the building straight ahead.

 

He kept his foot on the break, and his grip on the stick.

 

The sign on the building promised fun.

 

But despite the fact that the vehicle was now idling in park, the enforcer's hands stayed fixed to their positions, unwilling to let go.

 

This was not going to be fun.

 

“It's an arcade.”

 

The bland statement seemed to rumble around inside the car. Yet, the sound of it wasn't quite having its intended effect on the car's yawning passenger at the moment.

 

“Congratulations. You win a prize.”

 

Ichigo sat in the seat to the right, orange hair flush and flattened against the headrest. He had to scrounge for enthusiasm he didn't really feel at the moment. He wanted to be here. But he also wanted to be home in bed.

 

_Maybe they could fix that._

 

Ichigo cursed his brain, his cheeks warming a little as his lower brain functions cheerfully supplied him with what it deemed to be a very sensible solution. Seemed he'd found some enthusiasm, but it wasn't the kind he needed right now. He cleared his throat and turned to look at the man next to him.

 

Being with Grimmjow, it was uncomfortable, yes. Yet more and more he seemed to crave it. Even with that ever-present little ball of anxiety in his gut, he'd been looking forward to being around the puzzling bluenet again.

 

Yes, the very same one who was currently eyeballing him like he wanted to go ten rounds with him inside the car.

 

Despite appearances, Ichigo did want to be here, with him. He just needed a minute, or an hour, to get in the game. The Reapers' road trip last night had been another notch on their belt, and Ichigo had managed to make his way onto the scoreboard again. Afterward, the boys had dragged him out to celebrate, which meant an expensive dinner and a round of shots. Several, in fact.

 

And why not? He deserved to live a little, didn't he? And he had. They had stayed out late and then flown home early the next morning. And despite a fierce need to catch a catnap, as soon as Ichigo had made his way home from the airport and unpacked, he'd headed over to Grimmjow's place to pick up where they left off two days earlier.

 

He hadn't really given it much thought until he'd been in front of the enforcer again; how Grimmjow might feel about Ichigo's returning on-ice fire. All he'd thought about was how _he_ felt about playing without the bluenet. Not the other way around. But as soon as he'd seen him, the question seemed to just kind of hang there, like some sticky, clinging cobweb across a pathway, just waiting to smack some unsuspecting traveler across the face. And it had caught them both.

 

It had been an awkward moment when it had been brought up by the enforcer. But Grimmjow had actually seemed like he was trying to be supportive of the team and Ichigo's success.

 

Trying was a good thing, in theory. Less so when it was obviously failing. They had picked their way through the conversation about the game like a cat across wet grass. Grimmjow was clearly swallowing down some degree of resentment since the wins had happened in his absence. But at least he wasn't aiming it at Ichigo. The effort itself was progress.

 

But right now, the enforcer's expression was just a fistful of dirt away from that of a man digging his own grave.

 

“You want, I can just drop yer stagnant little ass off right here. An' you can go play miss pacman by yerself till yer heart's content.”

 

Ichigo's jaw twitched. _Stagnant?_

 

“Really? I would have thought she'd be more your type.” A striking blue eyebrow arrowed down, part question, part warning. Ichigo's dark eyes drooped in response. “You know, 'cause she swallows.”

 

Grimmjow's nostrils flared, but he only turned away with a grunt, which, if Ichigo were to use his imagination, might have sounded a bit like a laugh. But the sound rang sharp in his ears as the cabin lapsed into funereal silence while Grimmjow studied the building darkly.

 

“They have any of those... first person shooter games?” he finally rumbled. Ichigo did a small double take, but mostly ignored the veiled threat, choosing instead to unfasten his seat belt, an unspoken putting-down-of-his-foot that they were in fact going to do this.

 

“You know, I could be in bed right now, comfortable and warm and asleep...” he grumbled, missing the slight change in focus and the subsequent hesitation that skipped across the bluenet's face; elusive as a dream; there, then gone again.

 

“...But I dragged my ass out here to hang out with you instead.” Brown eyes flicked to him before they turned their attention away to the door. “So, do you think you could maybe produce an expression that doesn't flip me off?”

 

Ichigo pulled on the handle beside him. He didn’t care about the warning bell that would sound while the key was in the ignition. He cracked the door enough to let a rush of air into the car, because God knew he needed it. He was partially jet lagged, slightly hungover, and stuck in some futile secret crush on the man next to him. He looked back to the bluenet, waiting for the inevitable derogatory comment. He was surprised when it wasn't.

 

“I'm smiling on the inside,” Grimmjow replied blandly, face anything but.

 

Something about that look, the moment, the contradiction, gave Ichigo's insides a nudge, and he felt himself perk up. He found it cute... Dammit. He gave a small chuff of amusement and nodded.

 

“It shows, though.”

 

Grimmjow did the same, his hard expression cracking a little. His own nod was directed at the building ahead as he finally let go of the stick and plucked his wallet from the center console, tucking it into the pocket of his leather coat.

 

“So, you think this one up all by yourself?” He tugged the zipper closed. “Doesn't seem like yer thing.”

 

They were sitting outside the back of a large complex, staring at the building from their far corner spot across the street in a city parking lot. The sign above the doorway bragged that this was the city's largest and finest gaming establishment.

 

They could say whatever they wanted. Ichigo had no idea. All he knew was that this one had been stripped down and rebuilt, and was now outfitted with the very latest in video games and simulators, and many of the classic arcade style games. Of all people, Renji had been the one to tell him about it. Said he came here sometimes to keep his reflexes sharp. Yeah, right. He was single and probably one of the most immature people Ichigo knew on the team, the old “crotch soaked towel in Ichigo's face” routine being a prime (and gross) example.

 

This place... it was just his excuse to be a child.

 

But what was wrong with that, really? With so much pressure on the guys to perform, they all had to find ways to let loose and have some fun. Work hard, play harder. That was their mantra. Even Ichigo knew the importance of a little down time and a little stupidity. Not that this rated particularly high on the stupid scale, but he _could_ be moderately free spirited if he put his mind to it.

 

He kind of had to, though. It didn't come naturally. Ichigo had grown up fast, become a man before his time, been responsible, dependable, his efforts not all centered on himself. He'd had a family to take care of.

 

Yes, he was focused, but he certainly wasn't all work, like a certain blue haired irritant had suggested. They were both just... different in their approach.

 

“No. It was Renji's idea. But why not, right?” Ichigo glanced back with a lackluster shrug before he dragged the zipper of his jacket partway up, cool enough now that he could do so, and intending to climb out of the car. “It could be fun.”

 

Grimmjow snorted at Ichigo's halfhearted attempt to sell him on it. He sounded about as doubtful as Grimmjow felt. It wasn't that Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez was adverse to playing some video games. Guys were guys after all. If there wasn't anything hot to fuck, then having a few beers and running your buddy off the road or shooting him six ways to shit was always a good alternate. Video games were fine. At home, or at a party.

 

This was different. It was the masses of screaming, snotty kids and their older snottier teenage counterparts that he didn't much care for. And he knew how annoying they could be. After all, he'd put his _own_ demonic stamp on the whole choleric, in-your-face, teenaged angst thing. He knew what kids were like.

 

“Well, _now_ I'm excited,” he drawled. “If you ever decide ta leave hockey, at least we know you won't be selling shit for a living.”

 

Except for a discreet roll of his eyes, Ichigo ignored the complaint and the subsequent shot and pushed on the heavy door, throwing it open. Ichigo wasn't being apathetic on purpose. His goal was to get to know the man beside him as he was, not cajole him into things he didn't want to do. If Grimmjow wanted to do it, he would.

 

A gravelly voice stopped him from getting up for a second time, and he sighed inaudibly. Forget his vivid dreams, and forget a very recent illicit fantasy in the shower of his hotel room just so he could come here without his I-heart-Grimmjow underpants on.

 

Right now, he just wished Grimmjow wanted to leave the damn car.

 

“So, when did you start listenin' to anything Renji has ta say? He's a moron,” Grimmjow grunted, eyes cast down while he reached to unplug his phone from the car's charger. “Only thing he's good for is collectin' pucks.”

 

“That's a bit harsh... He's not _that_...” Ichigo trailed off. Was that concern in his voice? Over who Ichigo took advice from? That was different. As was the fact that Grimmjow hadn't expressed a particular opinion to him on one of their teammates before now. He thought _he_ was the only one Grimmjow couldn't stand. But Renji wasn't really a moron… He just acted like... Well, maybe...

 

But that wasn't the point.

 

Ichigo let the long heavy door of the enforcer's coupe fall shut again to stop the infernal warning ping, blocking out the welcome cold while he commiserated with his stubborn colleague. He looked the enforcer dead in the eye, expression decidedly jaded.

 

“You told me I had no childhood, remember?”

 

The phone forgotten, blue eyes set themselves on his, studying him for a heartbeat while the engine continued to rumble and the hot air continued to blow. Ichigo ignored the prickle that ran down his neck from the heat, but he was finding it hard to do. Especially when Grimmjow, the ass, seemed bored and unaffected.

 

“Did I?”

 

Ichigo scowled. Like he'd forgotten. Scary part was that he hadn't been far off the mark, not that Ichigo would ever outright admit to that. There was enough hot air in Grimmjow's head as it was.

 

“Yes. And I've been meaning to thank you for that. I'm seeing a therapist now.” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, and he wants to talk to you.” One of Grimmjow's cheeks twitched, looking oddly like a smile, and Ichigo got the sense that he was about to regret being a smart ass.

 

“Hn. I don't do couples therapy.” The enforcer grinned, enjoying the sudden look of discomfort that Ichigo was trying and failing to hide. But like he always seemed to do, he simply let it go, then nodded forward with his chin.

 

“So, you wanna another chance ta be a kid, huh? Nothin' wrong with that.” Grimmjow would have done a few things differently, but only so he could paint some assholes into the earth a little earlier than he had. Other than that, he was fine.

 

However slight it was, Grimmjow caught the crease in the orangette's eyes, the shift in his expression. And for a moment, the wind seemed to fizzle out of Ichigo's sails.

 

“Not really.” He said it half casually... “Once was enough.” ...half as if being caught up to by a memory. A bad one. And Grimmjow bit back the sudden urge to pry.

 

Prying wasn't generally his thing, and this didn't feel like any of his business in the slightest, so why....

 

Before he could change his mind and ask, the shadows that had flickered to life withdrew, and Ichigo seemed to snap back into himself. And then he was motioning to the snow globe outside of the car.

 

“I don't know if I'm giving you too much credit, but you may have noticed, it isn't the best weather for hanging around outside.”

 

He could feel the enforcer's eyes on him, but there was only a small grunt of annoyance.

 

“And you said you'd already had enough of - how did you put it? - “bullshit training” for today?” Ichigo cracked the door open again, starting up the noise again. Would Grimmjow ever get the hint? “So, this is what's happening. Take it or leave it.”

 

A low grumbling sound churned inside Grimmjow's throat as he resumed his stare down with the building ahead. He had, in fact, put it like that. Ichigo turned back to him and tilted his head.

 

“If you really don't want to, then think of something else and I'll do it.”

 

Grimmjow opened his mouth to reply, though he hadn't quite figured out how to respond yet. With a real suggestion? Or a snide remark? Which was unusual, since he was usually full of'em. But that turned out to be unimportant, since Ichigo had cut him off before he could say anything at all.

 

“I'm not going to a bar again... ever,” he grumbled.

 

There was barely a pause as the orangette started up, Grimmjow's expression slowly falling into a dark scowl.

 

“I'd suggest catching a movie again, but you already shot that down once.”

 

Grimmjow's rebuttal faltered somewhere in the base of his throat. He'd take a movie over this, he'd wanted to say. But instead, an oddly dramatic sigh had Grimmjow's jaw grinding.

 

“It's not like I was looking forward to this or anything.”

 

Ichigo's finger drummed against the passenger side armrest as he thought out loud.

 

“Hmmm. You know... I know it's cold out, but with all this snow...

 

Grimmjow...

 

“I bet the slopes will be good today.”

 

very slowly...

 

“We could try some downhill skiing.”

 

slid a sideways glare...

 

“Yeah. I think that's a great idea.”

 

at his passenger...

 

“I haven't done that in years. How about it?”

 

and held it there.

 

On that manipulative little bitch.

 

Ichigo knew damn well that something like downhill skiing was off the table right now. Last thing he needed was a broken leg at a critical time like this, when he was so close to playing again, and his team was on the verge of missing the playoffs.

 

This was actually reasonable and safe. He hated safe.

 

Grimmjow dislodged the key, an act that mercifully stopped the chiming of the open door alert before it could reach levels of annoyance that neither of them could stand. Although, after Ichigo's sarcastic little rant, he didn't think it was possible to qualify anything else as annoying, ever again. If Ichigo was a chick, Grimmjow would have driven her home by now, or called her a cab.

 

He didn't do things he didn't wanna do.

 

He plucked his wallet from the center console and jammed it into the pocket of his leather coat.

 

“Do you know how many little brats are gonna be in there?” he grumbled.

 

It was essentially a whine, but it still came out as a near bottomless growl. Ichigo exhaled an embattled sigh. So, that's what his problem was. He didn't really see what all the fuss was about, but at least now they were getting somewhere honest.

 

“It'll be dark in there. No one will even notice us.”

 

“They're even worse in the dark,” the bluenet snapped. “And I didn't get my rabies shot.”

 

“They're teenagers, not a pack of wild animals,” Ichigo responded irritably.

 

“Shows what you know. And I'd rather hang out with a pack of wild animals. It'd be safer.”

 

Ichigo pinched his nose in exasperation. Why? Why was Grimmjow being so difficult. It was just so … Grimmjow. He threw his eyes to the roof before turning to his fussing counterpart.

 

“I don't think they're gonna have rabies. And no one's going to bite anyone.”

 

“Hn.”

 

“Unless _you_ do first.”

 

Grimmjow's lip raised in a warning snarl, but Ichigo had too much momentum and not near enough good sense to stop.

 

“Trust me. With a face like that, I'm pretty sure they'll be too afraid to come near you.”

 

Grimmjow blinked. Then the enforcer's scowl slid into something almost passable as genuine, wounded offense.

 

“You gotta problem with my face?” he asked in disbelief. He was answered with a door slam.

 

Grimmjow grumbled a few choice insults inside the car while rounding up his phone and zipping up his own jacket. Ichigo was out the door before Grimmjow could get an answer to that. He knew what Ichigo's point was, but still, how insulting. He had to wonder, how was Ichigo suddenly getting away with insulting him all the time? And going on annoying rants. And goading him into doing things he didn't want to do.

 

He was going soft for sure.

 

He stood up and slammed his own door harder than necessary, internally wincing as he realized it was his own baby he was hurting. He yanked on his jacket. The cold air and wet snow on his face were an almost shocking contrast to the car's warm interior, and he tramped around the car with long quick steps towards the orangette who was waiting for him, despite the crown of snow that was already forming on top of his still spiky doo.

 

He suddenly wondered what it would look like wet. Would it ever go down completely? It was always scuffled into disarray when he came out of the showers at work. But what about when he was in them? He should have known that by now, but except for checking out his bruised post-game body and looking for faults, he'd mostly been intent on ignoring him under the spray. Mostly. If he thought about it, maybe...

 

He shook his head to rid himself of his own buildup of snow.

 

Fuck. Why was he thinking about shit like that?

 

And how'd he let himself get talked into this in the first place, anyway? Oh right. He hadn't really. Ichigo had met him at his apartment building, and after a brief argument over who was going to drive, they'd switched to Grimmjow's car. He'd let Ichigo give him directions to the place, but Ichigo wouldn't say where they were going. Grimmjow had grunted at him about it, but secretly, he was kind of enjoying the fact that Ichigo wanted to surprise him. It was kind of... nice.

 

His armored boots crunched and squelched in the snow before they splashed against the wet lid of a manhole cover as the the two men crossed the road.

 

Yeah, so it was nice. Fuck.

 

Grimmjow didn't know what to think honestly. He wasn't picking flowers off of petals for him but...

 

After all their fighting, he hadn't believed it, but Ichigo apparently liked him, or so said Kensei. It was obvious now, given Ichigo's constant concern and his considerable efforts towards the bluenet. But he was still a bit pissed at Kensei for being so damn vague about that. He suspected it was just his friend's way of manipulating them both into less hostile territory. He couldn't argue that it hadn't worked. It was surprising, but thinking that Ichigo had some respect for him actually _had_ worked to soften him up, more than a bit. More than he would have thought possible.

 

The rest, Ichigo seemed to have done on his own. And this getting along thing _would_ be great, but when they were around each other, Grimmjow was still left with this constant edge of nervous anticipation, like something bad or big or violent was going to happen, needed to happen. And he would be the cause.

 

In some moments, Grimmjow felt like he was drawn to him. And he had to fight every molecule in his body from grabbing onto the younger man and just shaking him until they were _both_ senseless.

 

The main problem with that was that he didn't know what it was he wanted to say to him, what he wanted to _do_ after all the shaking and senselessness. So he did what he did, and stuffed it away to be dealt with approximately never.

 

He had only one comfort to give himself. He'd come to understand this much... that this feeling was just part of being around Ichigo. And maybe if they kept spending time together, it would just fade to black on its own. Well, the sooner the better. It would be nice if he could let himself unwind enough to enjoy some of the things that Ichigo did and said without this monkey of mental instability on his back.

 

He'd only managed to blunt that feeling by toying with the orangette.

 

Grimmjow smirked to himself as they trudged across the snow covered ground towards the arcade in relative silence. Back at his apartment, Ichigo had actually conceded quickly to the change of vehicles, being as it was a cold ass day and apparently his car's heater wasn't working very well. Surprise. It wasn't until they were on the road that the orangette had realized Grimmjow's suggestion was more about Grimmjow's low opinion of Ichigo's driving than anything, and he'd started to gripe about the switch.

 

“ _Because, the last time you drove us on the highway,” Grimmjow rumbled, “a little old lady gave us a dirty look.” Ichigo had folded his arms in protest as he obviously recalled that small moment from their first time out. Grimmjow grinned. “And the finger.”_

 

_Ichigo sputtered. “Keh. That had nothing to do with the speed I was going,” he argued contritely. He'd turned his attention back to the road ahead of them, the heat in his voice dropping to something distinctly petulant, distinctly Ichigo when he knew he'd lost. “She just wasn't a Soul Reaper's fan.”_

 

_Grimmjow wasn't expecting the lighthearted rejoinder, and he broke into a grin that he felt in his eyes. He was starting to wonder how many moments like that one he had missed over the past few months while he'd so diligently ignored the young forward. A slight gnawing feeling had started up once the thought had taken hold, and he really didn't know what to make of it._

 

The door opened and closed again as four young males jogged up the steps ahead of them, laughing and scuffling with each other as they all tried to squeeze into the building at the same time, like some sort of weird reverse birthing process. Grimmjow ran his tongue along his teeth, before curling his lip and tapping one set of incisors together in an irritated staccato.

 

No. He definitely hadn't agreed to this.

 

He'd been hijacked was more like it.

 

They reached the top of the steps, and Grimmjow yanked the door open and held it, the disgusted look on his face saying “you first”.

 

Stopping just long enough to meet Grimmjow's sharp stare, Ichigo gave an exasperated sigh at the enforcer's dramatics and brushed bravely past his broad frame and into the den of alleged wolves. Grimmjow followed, catching himself on the edge of a grin, then shook his head.

 

The stunning part was that he'd let himself be.

 

Or maybe it wasn't. Grimmjow had lounged on his couch with the tv turned down while drooling on his own face for a good portion of the afternoon after their poutine and pool misadventure. Then he'd deloused and gone to dinner at his ma's place.

 

Ichigo had, of course, gone on a road trip with the team, and so, the next day had passed without incident. In fact, if Grimmjow were forced to put a word on it, it would have been _boring_. Yup. The most exciting part about it was that he trained for nearly three full hours in the morning. And he didn't even feel too bad after it. Then, after a power nap for good measure, he did some errands. One of those included rifling through his drawers like he was on a mission sent from God, and picking out a few rarely used pants and some old shirts to give to charity. 'Cause he was a giving kind of guy.

 

Except for one. Yeah. That gaudy one kind of had a... certain _appeal_ to it that he wasn't willing to let go of just yet. He still had a clear mental image of that moment, the first time they'd hung out; the double take, the struggle for composure. Like Grimmjow was pissing on his fence. And the feeling that went with it had been so fresh and satisfying at the time. And every little scowl ever since, every blush, every grumble, was like some corner store fat laden snack. Something Grimmjow rarely treated himself to. But this had zero calories so, what the hell. Finding ways to get a reaction out of Ichigo was more like an adventure than anything.

 

Grimmjow blinked at the change from gray and white to almost darkness. The place was big. It had the feel of a casino, but darker, like it was crossed with a glow stick infested nightclub. And more space-aged, with a strange blue hue. It came from the ceiling which was riddled with long twisted neon lights that barely held their own against the constant flicker of video screens.

 

Grimmjow looked down to the floor, then quickly back up again with a grimace. The carpet just made him nauseous.

 

But most importantly, the place was fucking packed. No surprise on a day like this.

 

What was beyond him though, was how the hell his mind had managed to wander off onto the topic of Kurosaki with so many bells, alarms, buzzers and nauseating carpet going off.

 

He was in hell.

 

**X X X**

 

Nearly two hours later Grimmjow was slamming the button home, taking Ichigo out with head shot after head shot in the fiercest first person shooter game they'd played yet. They had started out on the same team, playing against the computer, but oddly, it had quickly devolved into a mutual massacre. So, they'd switched to opposite teams. Awhile ago. The game ended, and Grimmjow didn't even ask before he shoved more plastic coins into the slot. It was a good thing he was loaded because this was costing him a mint. But who cared. It was worth it to see Ichigo's head explode.

 

The game lit up again, and Ichigo was mumbling something about finding a BFG... and then Grimmjow's ass would be his. Grimmjow sneered.

 

“Gonna be hard to do without a head.” He took his first shot. Ichigo swore.

 

“Sonofa....”

 

Grimmjow grinned, already hunting down the moments-old reincarnated version of simulated Ichigo and....

 

“Dammit!”

 

He moved the controls and raced his character down a dark, wet, brick corridor towards the surround sound of a character coming back to life and...

 

“Oh my Gawd! At least let me regenerate!!”

 

Ichigo glared hotly at him for about as long as he could dare to take his eyes off the twin screens, and Grimmjow let out a laugh befitting of his murderous digital persona.

 

He'd had his doubts. But it seemed he had taken to hell like a hockey player to a frozen pond.

 

Some of the games were destructive fun, like this one. Others had shown him a side of Ichigo he would have bet his car against.

 

Like when Ichigo had pulled out some mad skills in the racing game. Grimmjow had actually been impressed. On the road, he was unpredictable, slow as fuck for the most part, but deranged when agitated (Grimmjow's fault of course. He could admit that now). Off the road, though, the kid could drive like hell on wheels. He wondered if Ichigo just needed a safe place to really let himself out without worrying about other people. Like an animal being let out of a self imposed cage. He wondered if he was like that in other aspects of his life.

 

Grimmjow fumbled the keys.

 

The momentary lapse in concentration had Ichigo whooping in his ear, Grimmjow left staring at the remains of his very dead corpse, the remnants of his stomach oozing down the side of a dilapidated crate.

 

He grimaced. But he didn't mind. He liked it when Ichigo got better at things, almost as much as when he sucked. And he kind of liked to think it was because of him that he was improving so quickly.

 

“Lucky shot,” he grunted.

 

“No.” Ichigo was smiling, and Grimmjow felt himself... not _warm_... he wouldn't put it like that. Perhaps... defrost a little. “I think I'm getting the hang of it. Let's go again.”

 

“For sixty bucks, you better fuckin' be.” Ichigo's tongue flicked out as he mock scowled, the look somehow taking years off his face, and a weight that Grimmjow had never really noticed was there before. “You know, we could just buy this thing and save some money.”

 

And then it was Grimmjow's turn to inwardly scowl as he noticed the way Ichigo flinched, and realized what he'd said.

 

We.  
  


**X X X**

 

The second best part of the day so far was that Grimmjow's fears of being mobbed by pre and post pubescent demon spawn had been mostly unfounded.

 

Turned out, kids playing video games couldn't be distracted by anything less than a nuclear bomb, or another more exciting video game.

 

They'd managed to navigate their way through he masses of games for over two hours, and they'd been left alone for the most part. It wasn't just teens (Renji being considered one by both Ichigo and Grimmjow). There were even a few adults haunting the place, watching over their preteens from a distance without cramping their style. It reminded Grimmjow of the times his father had been there... always behind him...

 

The video screen flashed red, intestinal carnage strewn across a wet concrete floor, the image frozen before him fading to black, declaring Grimmjow officially dead again.

 

Grimmjow slammed a hand against his side of the machine.

 

“Want to go again?” That was Ichigo, slightly concerned and assuming Grimmjow was being a sore loser. He wasn't though.

 

He gripped the cold metal. Even he had his limits, and he'd had enough of all the virtual hooplah and faux otherworldly twilight blue. He could feel a tremble running through his hands, and he swiped at his nose, rubbing at an itch that wasn't really there. At the rink, that energy, it was different. Grimmjow used it for hockey, soaked up the frenzy of enthusiasm and wrung it out through his stick and his fists, letting it drive him forward.

 

He would have jetted hours ago, but Ichigo's growing enthusiasm had helped neutralize his general distaste for the environment. Until now.

 

“Nah. I think I'm just about done,” he rumbled, swallowing back a slight tremor in his voice. He cleared the rest of it away. “But there was one more you wanted to try, wasn't there? That big one in the corner?” He pointed towards the back of the enormous arcade where they could see two simulated seadoos in the corner.

 

And they were finally free. If they hurried, they might even get to them before someone hopped on and hit the virtual waves. Ichigo lit up.

 

“Sweet! I've never been on one.”

 

“You haven't?” Grimmjow perked up, disbelief coloring his voice. Ichigo merely shrugged.

 

“No life...” he mocked.

 

“Fuck, Kurosaki.” He shook his head in disgust, unable to let such an atrocity stand. “We'll have to get ya on one this summer.”

 

They both fell silent, equally startled into it.

 

They were equally unprepared for the awkwardness that fell over them, sideswiped by the idea of setting plans, by the promise of a future, aware of sounding very much like two people who were friends.

 

Grimmjow turned and grabbed for his jacket, the frown on his face hidden, wondering how such a simple comment had reduced his brain to sludge. And Ichigo pretended to watch the machine down the way.

 

Without another word, they started down the long stretch of nauseating carpet which was lined with bodies and machines, not a soul paying them any attention at all. Grimmjow sidestepped several patrons hunting for machines as they themselves moved toward their goal, Ichigo beside him.

 

Except that he wasn't beside him.

 

Grimmjow came to a stop.

 

Confused, he turned to find out why his partner had suddenly taken off. Maybe he shouldn't have suggested taking a dip together.

 

But that wasn't it. Ichigo was looking at a machine. No. Wait. He wasn't. He was looking between a large space in the machines that lined the wall beside them and.... Grimmjow squinted. He was talking to the empty space.

 

An eyebrow inched its way up. That was kind of weird.

 

He tilted his head fractionally and wandered back towards his partner. As he came up beside him, he could see what the orangette was really doing.

 

“Are you lost?” Ichigo leaned forward to try to pick up a response from the young boy who had taken refuge in the corner. But he only shook his head, scowling. Ichigo looked skeptical, and he dropped to one knee.

 

“Really? Who are you here with?”

 

“No one.”

 

“No one? You're too young to be here alone.”

 

“Am not. I'm six and a half.”

 

“Oh. Sorry.” Ichigo raised his hands in apology, and tried again. “Well, I'm twenty one and _I_ came with someone.” He watched as the boy's eyes flicked way, way up, past him, to the man standing off to the side. He heard a grumble from behind him, something about tethers, but he kept his focus on the child. “And I bet you came with someone too, right?”

 

“My... my dad.”

 

“Well, does he know where you are?”

 

“No.” It was a defiant mumble at best. Ichigo stood.

 

“Ok, well, how about we help you find your dad, okay? He's probably looking for you. C'mon.” He gave Grimmjow a motion for them to continue on the way they were going, since they hadn't run into any frantic fathers yet.

 

Grimmjow grunted, having already grown impatient with the game the kid was playing. He started to turn, expecting the kid to follow with the orangette. But the boy stiffened and stood his ground, fist tight by his sides.

 

“No! I hate my dad!” he shrieked. The high pitched mini explosion took Ichigo by surprise, and he took a step back, eyes wide.

 

But Grimmjow's reaction was a different beast entirely. The enforcer instantly spun at the words, eyes luminescent under the black lighting, and full of fury.

 

“Don't you EVER say that! He's yer pa and he loves ya, ya little shit!”

 

Ichigo jolted again, eyes wide in shock but quickly filling with confused anger at the outburst.

 

“Whoah! Grimmjow!” Reflexes kicked in, and Ichigo had already stepped in front of the boy who had simply frozen to the spot in utter terror, placing half of his body between the small child and the murderous looking enforcer. He lowered his voice, but the anger was still there.

 

“The hell?! Ease back on the throttle, would you?”

 

Grimmjow looked between Ichigo and the boy, as if he had suddenly become aware of his surroundings, as if he hadn't been before.

 

“Fuck. Shit. Kid, I didn't meant ta...”

 

He started forward, one small step, apology trailing off with a wince as he saw the boy's lip quaver. And like an earthquake it grew, and the boy's breathing began to hitch. Then all at once, he burst into tears.

 

Grimmjow flinched and took a step back, then another, retreating to a safer distance away from the tiny sobbing human. He was at a loss. The boy was officially bawling, and like some protective she-wolf, Ichigo was giving Grimmjow the mother of all disbelieving death glares as he dropped back to one knee in front of the child. Grimmjow raked a hand through his hair, then threw threw his hands up.

 

“Ah, fuck it.” With that quiet, growled curse, Grimmjow retreated. He was only going to make things worse for the kid.

 

All he ever did was make things worse.

 

And he was just going to leave again.

 

Should he have? Did it matter if he did? Would it have made any difference?

 

Grimmjow scratched at his shirt as he booked it towards the exit. He needed air. Stomach clenching, and jaw ground shut, he couldn't think about more than that as he left Ichigo to deal with it.

 

**X X X**

 

Ichigo frowned at the back of his teammate but didn't call him back. His first concern was the child Grimmjow had scared the effing bejeezus out of. Ichigo glanced around in apprehension while the boy stood there and cried quietly - thank god - face turned toward his own feet, shoulders shaking. It was noisy enough in the arcade that Grimmjow's outburst hadn't actually attracted much attention. A few people were looking in their direction, but no one had intervened. And now that Ichigo was crouched on one knee trying to console the upset child, they were already turning away.

 

“Hey, hey. It's alright. He didn't mean it, uh... what's your name?” he asked softly. After a moment, the boy managed to get out a word.

 

“D- d-d-david,” he stuttered.

 

“Ok. Hi David. I'm Ichigo. I'm sorry about my friend.” He looked at David with the softest expression he could muster, given that he was more than a little pissed off at the enforcer. “He shouldn't have said that. He just has a big temper. It wasn't your fault. Ok?”

 

Ichigo dropped his face a little lower to catch the boy's eyes. David sniffled and wiped his running nose along the back of his sleeve.

 

“It wasn't?”

 

“No. It wasn't.” David took in a big breath and launched a tentative glare down the corridor before aiming it at the floor again.

 

“Your friend is really mean.”

 

Ichigo sighed.

 

“Sometimes, he can be, yeah.” David's eyes flicked up with a hint of confidence.

 

“He's a big jerk.”

 

Ichigo couldn't help but let his mouth pull into a smile and let a breath of a laugh slip out.

 

“Big fat jerk,” he nodded with a grin.

 

David looked up and hi-cupped a laugh in response.

 

“Yeah,” he agreed, before his expression turned quizzical. “Why are you friends with him?” Ichigo blinked. _Because....I work with him... Because... we have to be... Because... I want him...? All of it was true._

 

“He's my ride,” he deadpanned.

 

Ichigo had forgotten how perceptive little kids could be. And he suddenly found himself at the end of a very skeptical look, like he was just another crazy adult whose reasoning kids didn't understand.

 

He gave a soft snort. He kind of agreed.

 

“Well, now I guess we _both_ have someone to find,” he grinned. “But first. Why don't we go try to find your... ”

 

“David! Dammit!”

 

They both startled. Ichigo, in his crouched position, nearly toppled backwards at the loud voice, one brimming with both anger and worry.

 

“Dad. I'm sorry!” The boy took a few steps away from Ichigo before he threw himself into his father's arms. And Ichigo sighed. Well, it was sort of a happy reunion.

 

He looked away from the father and son duo, back in the directions that the bluenet had gone, wondering what on God's green earth had caused Grimmjow to so profoundly and inappropriately blow up at a six year old kid like that.

 

He slipped away quickly, not interested in being noticed, or on the flip side, being thought a pervert picking up stray kids. He may be innocent in some things, but he knew how jacked up the world could be sometimes.

 

All that aside, there was something more urgent he needed to attend to.

 

**X X X**

 

He caught Grimmjow, or rather, found him, standing, just outside the door. He was at the bottom of the covered steps, staring at passing traffic.

 

Snow was settling on his shoulders and hair. At least he had his jacket on, his hands jammed in the pockets. He seemed to be still in the grip of whatever emotional trauma had set him off, like he was deciding whether he should stay or go. It had to be something big for him to have acted like that. And by the looks of it, it wasn't over. But it didn't matter what was going on with the enforcer. Now that the kid was taken care of, Ichigo's anger was all that was left, and he wasn't going to let Grimmjow brush this off.

 

Ichigo thumped down the steps to the sidewalk and turned amber eyes, dark and demanding, on the silent enforcer, his fiery spikes moving in the breeze of a few passing cars.

 

“Grimmjow? What the hell?” His hand pointed at the doors to the building like _they_ were the thing he was furious at. Better that than slugging the bluenet. “I just had to apologize to a six year old!”

 

At the sharp rebuke, Grimmjow turned his head towards him. Blue eyes weren't quite focusing, and stayed aimed at the ground, at the street, at the little empty spaces of air above it. Never on him.

 

“Yeah. Fuck,” he rumbled. “I...”

 

“What the hell was that about?” Ichigo pushed.

 

Grimmjow bristled. And though he glanced at Ichigo, he still didn't look him in the eye.

 

“Was nothin'. I'm just fuckin' tired, alright.”

 

“Tired?” Ichigo repeated, almost shocked out of words at the lame excuse of a man's lame excuse. He was going to have to give him something more than that. “Yeah well I'm tired too, but you don't see me yelling at a little kid!” he snapped. “What is your problem?”

 

Grimmjow's shoulders bunched as he took a deep, sharp breath and turned eyes as hot as the sun onto the orangette.

 

“I told ya I didn't wanna go play _fucking_ games with little _fucking_ brats.” Grimmjow's hands came out of his pockets, and Ichigo's eyes narrowed.

 

Anyone could see that Grimmjow was _hedging_.

 

“Don't tell me _that_ had anything to do with that kid. I'm not buying it.”

 

“It's none of your fuckin' business,” he growled, voice so low it seemed to rumble right from center of his chest.

 

 _Avoiding_.

 

“I fuckin' apologized and the kid's fine, ain' he?”

 

 _Dodging_.

 

Grimmjow took a step forward, using his size, his weight, everything he had to punctuate his resolve.

 

Anything to make this conversation end.

 

“So, just back the fuck off, would ya?” Even filled with anger, Grimmjow's voice seemed on the verge of cracking at any moment.

 

Ichigo stood fast, not bracing against the threat of tight fists, sharp teeth, and eyes that promised a world of pain. Because for all the enforcer’s aggressive posturing, for all the anger, he knew Grimmjow wouldn't do it. For the first time, Ichigo thought he saw it for what it really was.

 

A chink in the armor.

 

Grimmjow may be coming across like a contemptible bastard, but Ichigo could see it now, that he seemed genuinely shaken. And a confrontation wasn't going to get them anywhere.

 

“Fine,” he replied, voice strained, but even. Grimmjow needed to calm down. They both needed to. Maybe then he would open up.

 

Almost as quickly as he'd risen, the bluenet seemed to reign his emotions in and pull himself back.

 

“I … Shit,” he breathed. “Let it go, _okay_?”

 

Ichigo gave a small shrug and a slight shake of his head. Grimmjow was sincerely trying to make up for losing his temper. He was trying to be nice, even in the face of his emotions.

 

“Alright. It's fine. We're fine.” The last part was more a hopeful suggestion than anything, one Ichigo hoped Grimmjow would accept. And he seemed to.

 

It was hardly visible, but to Ichigo Grimmjow's whole body seemed to sag with relief.

 

Ichigo knew all about emotions, and needing space. And needing friends. He didn't know what was going on inside the enforcer's head, but he could see that right now Grimmjow needed both. No matter what their differences were on the ice, how things might be when they got back, that didn't matter right now. Right now, he wanted to be a friend.

 

Ichigo blew out a breath as they stood there, still in the same spot on the sidewalk. He reached up and brushed some of the snow from his hair.

 

“Well... What now?” When the verbal nudge wasn't acknowledged, he tried again. “It's fine if you want to call it a day, I...”

 

Grimmjow's voice was like a lightning strike on a calm night.

 

“No.”

 

Ichigo felt a small bloom of excitement in his chest, partly at the word, partly at the force behind it. Grimmjow wanted to keep at it, to stay with Ichigo. That was a very good direction to start.

 

But the flush was starting to creep across his skin... he shouldn't be thinking that right now. He'd taken care of his needs at the hotel this morning, but with Grimmjow actually around, and with the charge in the air between them, gawd, it was like his medication was wearing off. And at a time like this. How sick was that?

 

“Uh... okay.” He shoved his hands inside his coat pockets. “Do you... want to go back inside?”

 

“Fuck, no,” Grimmjow muttered, his voice still thick with emotion. “I... can we...” Shielded Cyan eyes fell onto brown. “...just hit up a movie or something?” Ichigo blanked for a moment, as a voice came back to him. _“It kinda defeats the whole point, don't it?”_

 

Indeed, it did. He tilted his head, the slightest knowing smile on his face.

 

“And not talk?”

 

He got a nod, and a breathy grunt.

 

“Yeah.” The enforcer's rough tenor was a restrained and subdued as Ichigo had ever heard it. Ichigo watched him for a moment, masking his concern as best he could. The really stupid, stubborn part of him still had half a mind to argue until Grimmjow finally snapped and told him what was going on. But instead he offered a casual shrug of agreement.

 

“Sounds good to me.”

 

After a heartbeat passed, Grimmjow began digging around inside his coat pocket like he had an itch to scratch before finally fishing out a simple set of car and house keys.

 

“You can check and see what's playing,” Ichigo offered.

 

Grimmjow looked quizzically at the orangette, but before the bluenet he could even take a step, Ichigo had reached out... and snatched them.

 

Then he turned and ran.

 

“I'll drive,” he yelled back.

 

Hand still exposed to the cold winter air.. and now empty.... Grimmjow stood there. His brain was having trouble switching from the highly charged emotions a moment ago to the here and now and whatever the fuck was now happening. But it finally did, and like an creeping earthquake, he slammed to life and growled at a volume that no one in a city block could have missed.

 

“Hey, you fucker! Where the fuck you think your goin' with those?!”

 

“What?” Ichigo yelled innocently, turning as he dropped from his run, walking backwards at a safe distance along the sidewalk across the road. He ruined any air of innocence he had, though, as he grinned and jiggled the keys in his hand. “You also said I should get a better car... live a little, remember?”

 

Grimmjow made the oddest choked off sound.

 

“Wha-... Yer... Not in my car!” he bawled, oblivious to the couple of passers-bye who had jumped and given him a wide berth at his loud declaration.

 

Checking for traffic this time, Grimmjow stalked forward after the younger man, pace increasing like a lion on a hunt, like something about to fall to all fours and give chase, then pounce.

 

“Plus, I'm a great diver!” Ichigo hollered across the parking lot, as he skidded into a turn and sprinted to outmatch the enforcer's pace.

 

Grimmjow grunted and almost came to stop when it hit him. Shit. Ichigo was throwing all kinds of old business back in Grimmjow's face today. He'd remembered every single little shot Grimmjow had taken at him... everything. And he'd done just what he'd said he'd do, and then some.

 

The enforcer shook his head and grinned sideways as he all out bolted after him. Playful little fucker.

 

“The fuck you are!” Eyes glimmering with intent, Grimmjow launched forward, strong legs covering ground in an effort to run him down before he reached Grimmjow's car and totaled it.

 

He was almost there, taking the corner to the row at the back of the lot they'd parked in, but the sound of his baby being unarmed sent him into an all out sprint.

 

“Touch my car and I'mma rip yer head off!”

 

**X X X**

 

Grimmjow's threat had been pretty convincing, and Ichigo had jumped into the passenger's seat instead of the driver's seat, guessing _that_ might be one step too much for the embattled enforcer. He'd only been a second or two behind, but it had been just enough time for Ichigo to lock the doors and roll the window down. And he'd made Grimmjow promise to behave when he opened the door. Ichigo wasn't actually scared. It was a game. And all in all, his impromptu plan had worked. Grimmjow's mood, though murderous on the surface, had improved remarkably.

 

They were just reaching the steps of the theater's covered entrance when the bluenet's phone rang, the distinct ring tone set to alert him when it was one special person.

 

“Gotta take this,” he stated, before putting a few steps between them and turning his body slightly away from the other man.

 

“Hey beautiful,” he chimed, grinning his bad boy grin.

 

Even though the bluenet had given Ichigo part of his shoulder and moved away for privacy, he didn't exactly lower his voice when he answered the phone. Ichigo perked up at the warm greeting, curious to know who the bluenet could be talking to. Who was he calling beautiful? He didn't have a girlfriend, but then, he had women chasing him down on a regular basis like a pack of emaciated wolves. Ichigo grinned to himself. At least he did if you believed the way _he_ told it.

 

Ichigo rubbed his hand across his stomach. It was funny. The thought of Grimmjow surrounded by beautiful women, naked and horny and receiving the full force of his attention, it caused a twist of envy in his gut. Envy, or perhaps, jealousy. Ichigo frowned. He was sure of it now. It was jealousy. He damn well liked it when the bluenet paid attention to him.

 

He couldn't deny it. This was not something he was going to be getting over any time soon. He was listening to a phone call, wondering who was on the line, and praying that Grimmjow wasn't making a date with some exotic creature who might steal him away. Lord, he was in trouble.

 

There was a short pause as Grimmjow listened to the caller.

 

“Anything for you. What do you need?”

 

Ichigo leaned forward, almost unconsciously trying to pick up the other half of the conversation.

 

“Sure, I got it. A few hours okay? I'm out right now....”

 

Interesting. He was being honest, but not forthcoming. Was it someone he didn't trust?

 

“Just hanging out with Kurosaki.”

 

Oh. No. Someone he did trust.

 

There was an unusual silence as the bluenet listened, until suddenly his eyes widened and he sputtered into the phone.

 

“It's not... No. I... No! Would you...? We're... Jesus! Maaa! Stop!”

Ichigo watched in curious awe as his blue-haired enforcer squirmed and writhed inside his own skin, clawing his way through his hair, and rolling his incredibly blue eyes. For a flash, they locked onto Ichigo. But they were gone again just as quickly, as if Ichigo suddenly made him inexorably uncomfortable.

 

“Sorry. Ma. Look, I gotta go...” he mumbled, then paused to listen before he growled out a blunt retort. “When have I ever forgot?”

 

Ichigo strained to hear, embarrassed that he was doing so at all, but unable to stop himself. He'd give anything to hear the other half of that conversation.

 

“You know I do,” he rumbled, voice exasperated but filled with a warmth that melted into Ichigo's insides... and made him feel a painful surge of envy. The bluenet grit his teeth and hunched away, tucking the phone to his chin and his chin to his chest before mumbling into the receiver. But Ichigo heard the words. They were a little bitten out, a little sulky, but distinct.

 

“I love you.”

 

The enforcer snapped the device shut. He seemed to be catching his breath and composing himself. Then he stiffened, turned, and caught Ichigo's eyes.

 

He hit the orangette with a mean stare. One that gave Ichigo no choice. He replied with a near beaming smile, enjoying the fact that the bluenet's cheeks were dusted with a hint of pink that definitely hadn't come from the weather.

 

“Shut up,” the bluenet snapped. The words had bite, but the petulant look on his face neutralized any attempt to intimidate him. That was just Grimmjow, being Grimmjow. Everything about intimidation... with the balls to back it up of course. But if you knew him...

 

Ichigo merely tipped his head to the side.

 

“Maaaaa giving you a hard time?” he drawled, eyelids drooping slightly and mouth quirked.

 

Grimmjow's glare sharpened, but it only fed the orangette's smile. Miffed, Grimmjow extended his arm, phone in hand.

 

“You wanna give _yours_ a call?” he growled “We'll see how _you_ do.”

 

Ichigo's smile retreated to a much softer smirk, and he glanced upward.

 

“Not unless that thing reaches all the way up.” Grimmjow followed his brief gaze towards the sky in confusion, expecting to see something there, before realization struck.

 

“What are.... Oh.” Grimmjow blinked. After a moment of staring at the cloud filled sky, the motion had sunk in. And he'd found enough sense to look mildly contrite. “Fuck.”

 

Ichigo decided to take 'fuck' to mean sorry, and shrugged one shoulder lightly.

 

“It's fine.” He explained without prompting, “It happened when I was a kid,” expression shifting to one of fondness laced with lingering traces of regret. “I still miss her,” he added softly, “but she'll always be right here, you know,” finger tips meeting the fabric of his shirt beneath his partially open jacket, then falling away to his side again.

 

Grimmjow automatically tracked the movement of the younger man's slender fingers, then risked a longer look into Ichigo's eyes, inspired by the tone of his voice. His eyes drew him in too. Though they pissed him off so much more much of the time, right now, they were like warm caramel on the tongue.

 

Ichigo regarded Grimmjow neutrally, but his heart was pumping much harder than it needed to be for a man just standing around like he was. The chill of the air, and voices of people around them seemed forgotten. It felt like something important was happening, but he wasn't sure what. So he waited. He watched as something in the older man's expression seemed to softened, and Ichigo felt a rush of excitement.

 

_Say it, he urged._

 

Ichigo could tell he wanted to let something out, and Ichigo wanted to hear it, wanted to learn more about the bluenet. But he knew partly by instinct and frankly by experience that Grimmjow couldn't be pushed into opening up. All Ichigo could do was prove he was someone Grimmjow could trust. Had he done that? They'd been getting along so well these past few days that Ichigo was just crazy enough to consider Grimmjow a friend now. Did Grimmjow feel the same? He realized right then, just how much it meant to him. Even as just a friend.

 

_Just say it, Grimmjow. Tell me._

 

Grimmjow looked back at the orange-haired man and felt a strange tug inside. He didn't talk about his father much to anyone outside of his ma, and a few select people. Some of his father's closest friends still visited his ma on a regular basis and they loved to reminisce. As much as Grimmjow enjoyed hearing their stories, the hurt it stirred up was too much.

 

Even though it had been over a year, it felt far too fresh. Too wrong. Too reprehensible.

 

He doubted it would ever get easier. He didn't deserve reprieve anyway. Laughter always strangled him, left a sting in his eyes, a warning that he was on the verge of tears. He didn't deserve release. Even when the best stories were being told, Grimmjow had to struggle to keep them back. It was far easier to keep the subject off the table. Safer. And people who didn't already know his father had no business knowing.

 

After a moment, Grimmjow's frown finally fell away. He wasn't really in the habit of pouring his heart out to others, or at all. The little tug was insistent, though. There was so much sincerity in those maple brown eyes, so much warmth and honesty, but mostly the promise that whatever he chose to put out there, the reaction he got would be genuine and fair. Ichigo, he'd learned, almost always called a spade a spade, and Grimmjow didn't deserve pity.

 

His armoured features softened, and he spared the frozen ground the briefest glance, the smallest escape, before drawing himself back to Ichigo. Grimmjow held the dark almond gaze with sobered blue.

 

He tried for a smile.

 

“Hn. My pa too,” he murmured.

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

Grimmjow didn't remember much about the movie they'd watched. He couldn't really.

 

Oh, it was chalked plenty full of action and witty Hollywood banter alright, and he'd watched the damn thing. But compared to the man next to him, it was largely uninteresting.

 

What _did_ get his attention was that Ichigo had managed to get him to help decimate a large bag of overly buttered popcorn. Because Grimmjow didn't eat that shit as a rule. Just like he didn't eat poutine as a rule.

 

He never would have thought that Kurosaki Ichigo could be a bad influence on him. The other way around, sure. But on _him_? No way. But it seemed Ichigo had a way of breaking his rules, a way of pawning his bad habits off on Grimmjow.

 

At first, he had deemed it a bad thing, another strike on Grimmjow's mental list against the orangette, a habit he hadn't actually relinquished yet, from a time that felt like forever ago, even though it had only been a week and a half since they'd made their agreement back in that hospital room.

 

But as he'd fingered and munched his way deeper through the layers of savory kernels perched on the armrest between them, down towards the bottom of the bag they were sharing, he'd discovered one benefit to sharing the greasy snack. They had inadvertently touched hands once.

 

And then several times.

The touching part was nothing to write home about... well maybe a line or two. It caught his attention... pleasantly... in the way that touching skin does when it was someone you didn't mind that kind of contact with. But that first small collision, new and unfamiliar, but so soft, warm, and welcome, and the chance little skip of feelings that went with it... well they were muted as quickly as they'd flared, because when he glanced up and saw the absolute discomfort on Ichigo's face, it had been like a blazing beacon him, and sheer entertainment. And that was just the start.

 

He'd wanted to come here to forget about earlier, to block out that dark unexpected rush of very personal emotions that had sideswiped him, and the awkward aftermath. But he hadn't anticipated enjoying himself this much.

 

At first, he'd settled back into his chair, just trying to get comfortable. It was snug. These theatre chairs always were for a guy like him. But at least they'd chosen the centre-isle row about halfway up. He had to give Ichigo bonus points there, for agreeing on the best spot in the house. It gave Grimmjow leg room, and it wasn't a bad spot if you really were here to watch a movie. You got the movie experience; the screen was nice and big, but not so much that you had to crane or turn your neck. And you never had to stand up for those annoying latecomers.

 

Now, if Grimmjow had wanted to screw around a little, he might have dragged him (or a chick, he meant) up towards the back.

 

The movie itself was an easy pick. Ichigo hadn't had to use much persuasion for that. It was _their_ kind of thing. Lots of action, a few car chases, and some sex scenes that bordered on porn.

 

At least, the last part was fine with Grimmjow. It seemed Ichigo hadn't been prepared at all for all that wet and slippery nekkedness, the two protagonists having steamy sex against a chain link fence in the middle of a downpour on a hot summer's night. And even under the cover of darkness, Grimmjow had seen the orangette sinking down into his seat. Practically, grinding into it.

 

Fuck, he'd bet his car the kid had a boner. He swore he could smell his arousal. Hell, it was almost turning _him_ on.

 

So, he'd reached out and covered Ichigo's eyes with the curve of his palm.

 

What? He was helping.

 

“ _I'll tell you when it's over,” he'd purred._

 

“ _Stop that!” The younger man had hissed beneath his breath, pulling the enforcer's hand down hard by his wrist, and letting it go like hot coals when he'd realized just how far down he'd pulled the enforcer's hand._

 

_Grimmjow's knuckles had grazed down the front of the stiff crumple in Ichigo's jeans, right where it mattered. He had noticed. Oh yeah. And then he had pondered really setting off the fireworks by giving Ichigo's thigh a squeeze. But he'd decided that would be going too far. There were lines that even he wouldn't cross, sort of._

 

_Besides, he already had what he wanted. The glow of the movie screen highlighted the creases in the orangette's features. He looked so damned peeved... tensed... almost... as pained as the actors moving through their throes, against the fence, in the rain._

 

_And it only made Grimmjow want to do it again and again._

 

_He knew he was using it as a distraction, though, ruffling his puritanical teammate. But he didn't care. He needed one. His mind kept trying to draw him back to that dark, gnawing place, the one that had ignited his temper. There was only one other thing that could really get his mind out of that little slice of hell, that could really capture his full attention and set his mind free. But he was in the middle of a theatre with Kurosaki Ichigo, so his options were limited._

 

_It was either rattling Kurosaki to the point of aneurism, or hooking up with some chick for a good, long, hard lay._

 

_Sex was always a top shelf activity. And any other day, he'd be all up in some tight ass. But right now, he'd have to make do with putting Ichigo on the defensive and picking him apart over fucking some chick._

 

_And it had been a damn long time since he'd done that. Two weeks? No. Three? Clearly longer. Had it really been a month?_

 

_Fuck him. He was officially dating his hand. He was due._

 

_Grimmjow had slid a glance at the smouldering man beside him, a sideways grin taking shape in the dark._

 

“ _What?” he'd whispered, leaning across the seat until the side of their heads brushed together, motioning to the screen. “You looked uncomfortable. Thought I'd help you out.” Ichigo tried at once to shrug him off, but Grimmjow could be like frosty metal on the tongue when he wanted to be._

 

“ _Ya. Well, piss off. I can handle myself just fine, thank you.”_

 

“ _Hn.” He'd smirked, sinking against Ichigo that little bit more, aware now of the scent from his clothes, his hair, his skin, and almost feeling too comfortable there, like he was getting a little contact high from it. “And with all the dates ya get, I bet you do.” Grimmjow simpered, not feeling much like moving unless he was told to._

 

_In fact, his head was practically on Ichigo's shoulder._

 

_To his credit, Ichigo leaned away, but he didn't really put any effort into fighting it. There wasn't much point now was there? But Grimmjow did feel him stiffen._

 

“ _Ju- You don't know anything about my private life. Just... shut up and watch the movie.” Grimmjow had chuckled and dug into the bottom of the bag, still leaning against Ichigo, who's only recourse had been a round of impotent grumbling. “And get some help, you perverted asshole.”_

 

“ _Aww baby,” he crooned back, nearly whispering into Ichigo's ear. “Just tell me when our session starts, and I'll be there.”_

 

_It was the shushing hush from a row behind them that finally settled the enforcer down and put their argument to rest for the time being._

 

_Grimmjow straightened back into his own seat, but he wore a self satisfied grin for a long while until the movie finally took some of his attention away._

 

He'd had no idea that Ichigo had been sporting a semi for the rest of the flick.

 

**X X X**

 

Ichigo shut the door to his apartment, hot, bothered, and relieved to be home. He had just under an hour before he needed to head over to his dad's for a late family dinner.

 

He rid himself of his shirt as he crossed the living room, heading straight for the shower. He could feel his orange hair reorganize itself into staticky spikes from the quick disrobe in the dry air, an irritating feeling that seemed perfectly within its rights to be there at the moment.

 

He pulled down the zipper of his faded jeans and shucked them off in the hallway, too frustrated to care where he'd dropped them.

 

It had been a long, strange day.

 

Ichigo reached past the curtain and twisted the tap to full, stepping into the spray even before it had fully warmed.

 

And he did _not_ feel one bit sorry for Grimmjow for whatever turmoil he might be in. Not one bit. Not after what he'd done to him in the movie theatre. The asshole had taken his teasing just one step short of a tidy little harassment suit.

 

He grabbed his loofah pad and the remnants of a bar of soap off the ledge. But instead of rubbing them together, he looked past them, down to where his frustration was still making a nuisance of itself.

 

The bluenet didn't really know what he did to Ichigo. He might have _thought_ he did but...

 

And if Grimmjow ever found out...

 

Ichigo muttered a curse as the soap squeezed through his fingers and hit the tub with a lifeless thump. He bent to grab it before it slid into the drain.

 

That was a scary thought. Grimmjow would probably beat the shit out of him on principal. And everything they'd worked for would fall apart.

 

He ground the bar across the loofah until it was frothing, then rolled the pad in circles around his abs, then up under his arms, and once down each thigh as the water finished heating up.

 

He had to be more careful. Not just because of Grimmjow, but because of what prying eyes might suspect. It was already becoming a thing in the newspapers, as proven by the unsavoury reporter they'd met. Even if it was jut a few passing comments which no one seemed to take seriously, the seed had been planted in the public's consciousness.

 

No way was Ichigo planning on being some unmasked symbol and news fodder for the hockey league. He cared about people, but seriously. Someone else could get the sword out of that particular stone.

 

Now that he was home and taking stock of their day, Ichigo was realizing how he'd acted with the enforcer at his car might have looked to an observer. Two guys playing around? Something more intimate? Or maybe he was just being paranoid because he knew the truth about his physical feelings for the other man. And that was another thing. Were you gay if it was mostly physical? Mostly?

 

He placed the loofah back on the shelf, letting the water rinse away the soap that slicked his body, scowling while he rubbed the bar between his hands.

 

Who was he kidding. He'd been flirting. Flirting!

 

Eyes falling shut, Ichigo wanted to bang his head into the porcelain tiles of the shower wall.

 

And still his hand found its way down, closing around his waiting length.

 

His slippery palm twisted and squeezed as he worked the soap around his ready flesh, coursing up and over the spongy, rounded tip, then sliding back down again. As the hot pellets of water beat against his skin, he leaned the crown of his head against the wall, squeezed his eyes tight, and spread his legs.

 

His other hand slid its way down and along his lower back, slipping between the break in his cheeks, fingers separating and probing, one of them, the blue-haired bad boy of the group, pushing against the resistance until it began to pinch.

 

The touch and the pressure made him catch his breath. But he wasn't in the position to stop. No. He wasn't allowed, because the person behind him was the one in control. And he deserved some discomfort.

 

Everybody thought Kurosaki Ichigo was oblivious to sex. But of course he wasn't. And he'd always known in general what happened between men. Until late the other night.

 

After running and pool and family dinners... When all of that was out of the way and the world was quiet and supposed to be in bed, Kurosaki Ichigo was not. The other night, he'd browsed the web, wanting to know that little bit more. He felt a bit like someone was watching him over his shoulder, like this kind of exploration wasn't allowed in his world. But he refused to let that stop him from being whoever it was he thought he might be. And except for stupid things like pool, he was a quick study. And this was no exception.

 

He made himself relax as his slick fingertip pressed against his entrance again and wriggled like a hunting, slippery thing. Aggressive. Hungry. A thick member demanding entrance.

 

A little bit of reading had turned into a little bit of watching, until he'd been faced with a scene of perfection. Two men, one smaller, one larger and more muscled, a couple in love, and making it. Wide pinprick eyes had narrowed to bloated and black as he'd worked himself off crudely in the chair at his desk in his bedroom. When he was done and able to focus again, he'd watched a short tutorial on the basics. He hadn't tried it then.

 

But he needed it now.

 

Ichigo grimaced, a small laugh bubbling out as he realized the humour in what he was doing. Giving himself the middle finger.

 

The laugh turned into a lurching groan as he drove that finger slowly up and in as deep as his body could handle it, his other hand sliding up and down along his now throbbing length. Gripping. Squeezing. Seizing.

 

The same thing his body was doing to the hard flesh inside him.

 

He felt his finger suction its way out before he forced it back inside again, deeper, gasping in pleasure against the strange, slight ache.

 

It speared him again and again, burning and pinching until he forced his muscles to relax, to open up to the hard intrusion. To give up and let it happen. Let it all in.

 

He groaned harder when he thought about how much he deserved this, just for _thinking_ this.

 

Water cascaded over dark eyelashes, tightened brows and creased skin, everything ground shut, leaving Ichigo's body a prisoner to the merciless drive of powerful hips.

 

Grimmjow was behind him.

 

Giving him his punishment for being so sick.

 

Telling him how much of a rookie he was for wanting someone like Grimmjow at all... and how much he was enjoying pinning his ass to the wall and having free reign inside him. How Ichigo's body, his stiff cock, and his tight little hole were going to make Grimmjow cum so hard....

 

And Ichigo was taking it, the only way he would ever willingly take abuse from Grimmjow.

 

But each growled curse came with a warm kiss on the back of his neck, a soft bite; a prize for giving up his control to the other, for giving Grimmjow access to his body in whatever way he wanted.

 

Ichigo was just happy that he wanted.

 

Both hands fell into a fast rhythm, a growing desperation driving them inward together as his head pressed harder and slid a little bit further down the not so clean tiles of his shower wall when his knees buckled underneath him. The muscles of his calves were tight as he rose onto the balls of his feet, his legs shaking from the pleasure.

 

His panted breathes were coming harder and faster, Grimmjow's name tumbling across and over wet lips before turning into the same humid spray that wrapped around him, his back arching low then heaving as he stood bent over in his shower, fucking into his own palm and getting reamed by his own finger.

 

He stood outside of time. Nothing mattered. The past. The future. The sun. The night. Schedules. Bills. Phone calls. Plans. None of it.

 

Just them. Just him. Just that.

 

A minute passed. Then another. And that was it.

 

He was euphoric, Grimmjow exploding inside him, telling him he was his. His body shivered as his dick pulsed out a broken stream of cum into the spray. The world was beautiful. He felt desired, complete, and whole. Like everything he'd ever done had been about this moment.

 

And then...

 

...he was just wet again.

 

A guy alone in the shower, caught inside the spray, watching his spent, watery semen turn its way down the drain.

 

**X X X**

 

Grimmjow exhaled hard underneath the water. He had to fight for it, but as he breached the surface, he took another quick breath and plunged back down, body turning in a tight somersault before he pushed off like a mule against the concrete wall and propelled himself back the way he'd come.

 

It was his last lap and he was feeling it now, his butterfly strokes not as strong and orderly as they had been a half an hour ago.

 

In his defence, he'd done a full workout already, going through some of his usual hockey routines, working the muscles he'd need to rely on the most while on the ice.

 

This was just an extra bit of punishment. But his reward was the sauna. Cold and heat. Polar opposites, but a great way to relax.

 

And he needed to.

 

He was feeling an indescribable flux of emotions this morning, nervous and tense, yet excited and hungry to get at the day, as if his body were driving him to get up for something extremely important.

 

Well, of course it was. He was almost back to the game from a serious injury. Any day now.

 

If only it were that simple.

 

Nobody needed to know, but he felt like a fucking train wreck. So many thoughts were running rampant through his head, the little threads of his life flapping around like loose, shredded ribbons in a windstorm.

 

Black. Blue. Gold. Orange. His return. His family. The game. Ichigo. Sex.

 

If he could just grab onto one of them, any one, make sense of it, maybe then everything else would fall into place. Everything would calm.

 

Right now, though, everything about yesterday seemed to take precedence over his return to the game. He had let himself open up yesterday, because, at that moment it had felt good. But even as he'd mentioned him, his pa, pain had flared, and Grimmjow had instantly regretted the gesture.

 

He'd had to find a way to squelch that feeling, keep it from exposing him for what he was. So, he'd taken to tormenting Kurosaki again.

 

It had helped. And it was nice to be back to their usual roles, lose himself in a place where, once again, Grimmjow could enjoy a little bit of that situational control that usually came so easy to him. But it left him wondering about his companion.

 

Other guys he knew weren't this squeamish. Why did Ichigo have such trouble with physical contact? Was that just a thing of his? Or was it Grimmjow specifically? And why did he flush so badly when teased about sex? It was just sex, for Christ's sake.

 

Grimmjow knew that at times Kurosaki had all the charms of a jittery reclusive virginal jellyfish around women, while other times he _acted_ completely clueless and unaware that he was even being hit on. That much was common knowledge thanks to Shinji's loud obnoxious jibber jabber about every pseudo sexual encounter he and his little posse from the club had managed to fabricate since the season began.

 

But that was the part that Grimmjow really wondered about. Was it an act?

 

Ichigo was a fucking looker, from head to toe, the total package. Fuck, he even smelled good too. And, no, Grimmjow wasn't afraid to say it... quietly and to himself.

 

But did Ichigo really not notice how often women checked him out? Grimmjow had seen it in nearly every interaction they'd had together with the general public, which admittedly wasn't a lot. But all he'd had to do was look around them to see that if chicks (there was even a guy one time) weren't busy eye raping Grimmjow from a distance, then they were appreciating Kurosaki's ass.

 

Heh. They didn't know the half of it. If they knew what Grimmjow got to see in the locker room and in the showers on a regular basis, they'd probably kill to be in his position...

 

The water exploded in a white frothy rush as the enforcer surfaced and came to rest against the edge of the pool, drawing in a hard lung full of air as he did. He clung to the side for an extended moment, scowling at the direction his thoughts had taken when he was supposed to be focusing on his swim. He ran a hand down his face like an angry squeegee before he finally flat-palmed the wet tiles and hauled himself out on strong arms. He pondered the water that poured off of him, watched the droplets as they slid down his long bare torso and plashed onto the floor around him...

 

... just like they always fell from that familiar body, so much like his own, but so different.

 

Fuck. He shook his head hard enough to spin out his hair. He had to find something better to think about than some other guy's ass.

 

He came to life and tramped into the change room. He peeled off his black square cut briefs, stopping long enough to rinse himself clean under the hard spray of the shower. Then, still dripping, he grabbed a dry towel and padded back out the door, past the pool, and into the heat of the communal sauna. There wasn't anyone else in the private pool at the top of his building at the moment, so he didn't bother to cover up.

 

He threw the towel across one of the sauna's wooden benches, and sat down, naked, spread eagle, and boneless. The wall against his back was almost searing hot, and the same heat from the bench beneath him was quickly penetrating the section of towel he was sitting on and creeping into his glutes. He kept the other end of the towel free in case someone else did walk in. It had happened before, like with his neighbours, who he knew without a doubt would cheerfully enjoy another extensive eyeful of Grimmjow.

 

Eyes drooping in amusement, Grimmjow's hand played with the loose end of the towel, and he grinned at the memory of their awkward first meeting just after he'd first moved in.

 

That was one way to meet your neighbours.

 

They'd been chummy with him ever since. Grimmjow's smiled broadened. And they definitely didn't want him for his money.

 

He made a mental note. He needed to pick up snacks. He'd invited the two men over again for tonight's away game. He didn't mind their company and conversation, even if it was a bit hard to watch how much in love they were. And expressive about it. Especially on his couch.

 

Fuck. He should invite Kurosaki over sometime and let him sit there awhile before telling him just what kind of kink went on under his cute little ass. He could just imagine how flustered the guy would get under Grimmjow's knowing gaze with that little tidbit bared and out in the open.

 

Grimmjow's dick chose that moment to give a small pulse of agreement.

 

Blue eyes narrowed, grin evaporating. He folded his arms behind his head and closed his eyes, a dark scowl saturating him as much as the humid heat that slowly worked its way layer by layer down into his muscles.

 

Hn. The relaxation part was going to take some time.

 

He knew what that was about. He was just wound. Because he hadn't gone out and gotten laid last night like he'd planned.

 

He'd gone over to his ma's, helped her with the chores she'd called him about at the theatre, then sat for dinner. Then he'd dropped by Kensei's, but his friend was out. So, instead Grimmjow had ended up chatting with his wife, Sarah, who was seeking relief in a small glass of wine while their baby was, for once, asleep. And adult conversation. Grimmjow's speciality.

 

But Sarah had been the one to do most of the talking. And Grimmjow was forced to sit back, arms folded, and just lend an ear. He could do that well enough to.

 

Apparently she needed it. The girl was all over the place, venting briefly about the trials of parenting and dealing with Kensei's unique fathering skills, before going into the raunchy details about the parties Grimmjow had missed, then showing him her ideas to renovate their kitchen. Grimmjow had pointed out some ideas of his own that she'd loved, which had earned him a big sweet kiss on the cheek. He'd grinned and returned the gesture, adding a growl that had her playfully smacking him on the arm, but swearing up and down that he was not allowed to miss their next party. He humbly agreed. She was a doll. And Kensei was a lucky guy.

 

The whole visit had killed an easy two hours, and before he knew it, it was well after ten. Still plenty of time to make a date, or wrangle up a booty call.

 

But he hadn't.

 

As he'd sat in his car, idling in Kensei's driveway, he'd scrolled down his list of easy lays, and nothing had seemed appealing.

 

He'd been smiling as he'd headed out the door, feeling thoroughly caught up, like he'd spent too long a time away from surrogate family. But also somewhat melancholy. And like the chill night air, that feeling had begun to sink in bone deep.

 

Something came back to him as he'd considered the numbers stored in his phone, something Ichigo had asked him once. And he'd found himself looking at the large but simple house in his rear view mirror as he'd pulled away from it's bright lights, its warmth, and all the memories being made together in that house. A life together.

 

His phone had ended up on the floor of the car, thrown there.

 

He really hadn't felt like prowling through bars last night. Picking up some anonymous chick. Or even going through the pointlessness of chatting someone up and attempting to get to know them a single grain beyond the surface before he took them somewhere and tried to make a one night stand seem like something meaningful and full of promise.

 

So, he'd gone home, and prowled around his apartment instead.

 

And in the end, he'd plain given in to his basic needs. He'd lain on his bed and stroked himself off to a mental slide show of spread legs and rounded flesh bouncing against him as he buried himself. Whatever random, explicit images he could recall from past encounters. All of it hollow after awhile, his mind skipping through each image like a hole-fucking compilation, more and more desperate, seeking another visual hit of satisfaction, as hips rose off the bed and thrust into a tight fist, just enough to propel him forward that one coveted little bit more.

 

His hand, aching from its merciless grip, had snapped back and forth against his straining flesh long enough and hard enough to become almost painful, drawing out an open mouthed groan as he gave himself over to desperation.

 

For a moment he let his anger take over.

 

And instead of struggling, he let the images come to him.

 

He was fighting. He was being fought. For a moment he was somewhere new, somewhere tight and untouched, revelling at the sensation as it clenched around his throbbing dick, hurting him as much as he was hurting it. So close. He slammed in again and again, drawing out a mournful sound from the body he was fucking. So close. One hand scraping nails down hard muscle while the other reached up to grasp and wrench back on a thatch of sexed-up hair...

 

Everything shattered, and he'd cum in gouts over his fist.

 

It had left him more shocked than satisfied. He'd never had this problem before. He'd always been a bit of a hound dog, and he'd never had to resort to scrolling through his personal porn or even swinging for the other team. And he was definitely more annoyed than sated as he'd hopped in the shower to clear away the mess, one finger digging out the sticky white liquid that had pooled in his belly button. That should have been inside someone (in a condom perhaps) but not splattered from his stomach to his chest.

 

Grimmjow shifted and straightened his back against the wall of the bench where he'd slouched for too long.

 

Despite the small sexual relief, he'd had another rough night, the emptiness of the room getting to him in a way it hadn't before. And if that wasn't enough, when he finally fell asleep, it was filled with painful dreams full of details that he couldn't quite remember. Or just didn't want to.

 

Grimmjow's eyes snapped open as the timer to the sauna went off, and he grunted in irritation.

 

After last night, the morning should have been a blessing. But it wasn't, because he woke up knowing he was missing yet another practice. Another away game.

 

That's where Ichigo was. Where he should be too.

 

He stood and wrapped the towel around his waste, shoving one corner down tight into the valley of his groin, then waded out of the oppressive humidity and stepped into air that felt more like the biting cold of a freezer than a pool.

 

That's what was feeding Grimmjow's anxiety. Being so damn close. Having what he wanted just out of reach.

 

He left all of last night's weirdness behind him as he reentered the change room.

 

He was taking care of that. He had another appointment with his doctor tomorrow. He felt good enough to play, even if it wasn't his full ice time, so he'd pushed his appointment forward. It was all much to the reluctance of the doc. But give him a break. Who knew Grimmjow better than Grimmjow?

 

**X X X**

The Reaper's locker room was once again filled with the obsessive rumble of hockey talk and the unapologetic sight of men in various states of nudity.

 

Normally, Ichigo would have felt quite comfortable, at ease with himself, here in this place. There was this unavoidable problem, though.

 

It had nothing to do with the tan-less bits of skin that either flexed or hung on display like would be trophies. He was looking more than he used to, curiosity drawing his eye. But it was a study in anatomy at best. At worst, a comparison.

 

But no. His real discomfort arose from the fact that the stall at the opposite end was still empty.

 

The young forward's dark eyes drew back into his own corner, but the indented scowl didn't recede.

 

Grimmjow needed to come back. For his own good.

 

Kensei had been asking about their play dates this morning, and Ichigo hadn't been sure if he should mention the bluenet's strange behaviour. He wanted to, but now that he knew how private the enforcer was, and how much it had taken for Ichigo to be allowed even the tiniest glimpse into his personal life, well... going _around_ Grimmjow about it felt like he would be breaking a trust, not to mention prying.

 

But now it was on his mind. Stuck there.

 

Ichigo paused as he rifled through his hockey bag in search of one of his protective shoulder pads, the loud voices and back and forth taunts around the locker room distant and coming through only in vague, offensive bits and pieces.

 

The more games they had between them, the more Ichigo could see it. It was unnatural for the enforcer to be outside of hockey. He was like a predator pulled from the jungle, pacing its cage waiting for some real action, the kind it would never see in some godforsaken zoo.

 

Not that Grimmjow wasn't a fully functioning social being.

 

Ichigo's fist wrapped around a pair of perfectly rolled up socks, and he stared blankly at them for a moment before he raked them aside.

 

He was capable of being human, capable of being warm, caring. Even... loving. Just as he'd been with Kensei and his mother.

 

That knowledge made Ichigo ache inside.

 

But the tension and the small explosions of anger Ichigo had witnessed when he'd been with him, the moments of distance and moodiness...

At first he'd assumed that when you had as much aggression as Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez and no real outlet, you were sure to become unbalanced. But it was clear that something was really bothering him.

 

His digging paused as he looked up to the barely shadowed, flat wall of his locker. There was no privacy here. Everything out in the open.

 

Maybe he _should_ have asked.

 

Right.

 

Ichigo tasked himself, grumbling a little as he resumed foraging hopelessly through his gear. He had taken to washing his own gear lately. It was a luck thing. Superstitious. Maybe. But harmless, if he could _find_ it. He was never this disorganized. Had he lost the damn thing?

 

A few moments later, “damn thing” acquired, he hitched up his skates and finished preparing to hit the ice. They didn't take off until after noon, so they were squeezing in a morning practice, nothing taxing, just a few light drills to work on puck handling skills before heading to the airport to catch their flight. Grimmjow, no doubt, would be pacing mad holes in his carpet or chewing his nails off, or both, at the prospect of missing yet another game.

 

But how much thought had he given to their on ice partnership? Ichigo didn't know. Because they hadn't broached the subject. Not once.

 

As the orangette slid into his gloves and picked up his stick, his stomach did an unhappy little twist. He was convinced he had to be as nervous as Grimmjow was about working together again, maybe even more.

 

He trudged down the hall with his teammates.

 

It was funny. Ichigo's opinion of the Sexta hadn't changed much during his first months with the team. The bluenet was a monster on the ice, violent and brutish. He made no sense to Ichigo. Until their mutual downward spiral, he'd been a relatively high scoring forward one minute and a feral attack dog the next, sometimes head hunting opposing players and taking them out with bone crushing hits, and other times brawling like he was in the middle of a dirty street fight. He was all about excessive force and eliminating the competition. Ichigo wasn't much better sometimes, but at least his hits were clean, and he didn't intentionally send other players to the hospital.

 

On the ice, the bluenet was a hollow, soulless beast. Off the ice, though... he was so much more.

 

Ichigo exhaled as his skates hit the ice. His body was back in the game, but without the enforcer there to “liven” things up, his heart was somewhere else.

 

He watched as the floor of the empty arena around him filled with Reapers, the players swarming onto the ice and a slew of black pucks moving back and forth between them like buzzing flies. He let a puck slide by him, eyes blank.

 

Hockey. He _needed_ Grimmjow to come back.

 

But a cold start would be difficult for him. He wouldn't want people to see him weakened. He was too damn proud.

 

Ichigo began to skate.

 

And God knew what would happen once they were back on the ice together. Ichigo shuddered to think. It would - he couldn't believe he was using the term, but - it would break his heart to see all their progress crumble to dust in the face of their on ice emotions. They needed a chance to work together with no distractions.

 

But they also needed a guiding force.

 

A quiet smile formed as Ichigo swept a puck off the ice and balanced it on the tip of his outstretched stick.

 

Brown eyes sharpened as he whispered its name.

 

He knew just the force to do it.

 


	25. Chapter 25

Wind-whipped snowflakes pelted the glass of sliding doors high up on the balcony of an upscale apartment in downtown Karakura.

 

Insistent. Like they were trying to get out of the storm and break into the almost subtropical apartment.

 

The pale vertical blinds shifted open as heated air blew up from one of the vents below, a band of light opening up and leaking out into the night - or vice versa - the movement creating, for a moment, an unnoticed connection between two worlds. One of life and warmth, and one of darkness, turbulence, and bitter cold.

 

But that was their lot. Their glimpse into the life of Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez was a fleeting one, as one by one, they were blown sideways by the high winds, lost souls driven back out into the night and ever onward.

 

Perhaps they just wanted to watch some hockey. And who could have blamed them.

 

Bare feet padded across the coolness of smooth tiles, making short work of the space between the kitchen and the living room to where the ceramic floor gave way to plush carpeting. The movement of the blinds to the left and the furious darkness trapped behind thick panes of glass went unperceived against the noise of the game.

 

As hockey games went, it had been an exciting one so far. No injuries yet, just a few good fights, lots of clean hits, and some great goals.

 

The owner of said apartment dropped his heavy frame onto his couch while the whistle blew to start the play again. He set two of the three beers he'd fished from his fridge down onto the table and shoved them to his left.

 

His guests were back. The couple from down the hall.

 

It was becoming a thing.

 

But he didn't really mind. In fact, Grimmjow had supposed he could finally say he had gay friends that he knew of now. They had been fairly good company tonight, keeping the atmosphere light and sharing a toast with him to good fortunes; for himself, for themselves, for his team. And silently, Grimmjow had added; for he and Ichigo's friendship.  
  


For the moment, untouched by the sideways storm passing around them in the night, the owner of said apartment was enjoying himself. About to slouch back into his couch, second beer in hand, he felt almost relaxed.

 

And then everything changed.

 

**X X X**

 

Kurosaki took a high stick to the face just as Grimmjow's second beer hissed open.

 

The suds swelled and fanned out around his finger tips.

 

The arena and the living room of his apartment erupted in a short symphony of sympathetic sounds and outraged yelling.

 

But the bluenet hardly noticed. He was too engrossed with the game itself. And the man currently at the center of it.

 

Grimmjow didn't add to the chaos. His fingers stayed pressed in an almost rigor against the open tab of his beer, like he'd been frozen in time, perched on the edge of his couch in the midst of opening it. The only part of him that didn't seem like a scowling wax figure were his eyes, ever azure and alert, flicking across the large screen that hung in front of him, gathering information as he watched the cameras follow Kurosaki Ichigo's reaction.

 

And it was as expected.

 

In one simultaneous moment, the forward's gloves flew to his face, his stick fell from his hand, and then... Ichigo went straight down to the ice on his front – hard - and stayed there.

 

The mikes couldn't pick up all of the distressed cries coming from number fifteen, muffled as they were, but they didn't need to for Grimmjow to feel for the younger man. The amount of pain he was in was evident as his legs scissored back and forth frantically against the ice.

 

He was keeping his injury hidden from the crowd, laying on his stomach, face burrowed in his gloves... except for the moment when he shed them in a quick shucking motion and then covered up again with loose fists, like he was attempting to hold the pain at bay.

 

Or, he may have just been trying to keep all of his blood from gushing out onto the ice.

 

Was hard to tell.

 

The brief removal of his gloves had revealed a sizable red patch beneath him already. It was pretty grisly.

 

Grimmjow watched passively from his couch, mind all but on the ice beside his partner. The trainer was already on his way across the rink as soon as the whistle blew. He was almost there now.

 

A trickle of foam slid down the side of the can and fell onto the carpet between Grimmjow's feet. Tension pulsed through the lines of his body, like all it wanted to do was to move to the screen and crawl through it.

 

His hand twitched against the can as number fifteen's struggles were replaced with a quick instant replay. Frame by frame, the hit itself played out all over again, and narrowed Azure eyes took it all in. The stick caught him across the mouth, but nothing had come flying loose. He wasn't spitting chiclets. That was always a good sign. But on the way up and out the stick slammed against the underside of his nose. Grimmjow grimaced in a fleeting fit of sympathy. He knew exactly how much that could hurt.

 

“Holy shit. I thought for sure that got him in the eye! Damn, he's lucky!”

 

That's where all the blood was coming from. Just a hard shot to the nose. Nothing more than Grimmjow had deservedly given the guy himself once or twice.

 

“Man, don't even say that! That just gives me the shivers.”

 

He was moving, and his limbs were working fine. His nose wasn't jammed up into his brain or anything. Just broken, maybe. Nasty, but fixable. And he might only be out for the game.

 

Grimmjow pushed the beer tab back down before he raised his hand to his mouth and sucked on his fingertips. Then he took a quick pull from the can, eyes never leaving the screen.

 

'Course Ichigo wouldn't see it that way. His little princess wouldn't be able to hide _that_ one with make up.

 

Azure eyes creased with distaste. Shit. Even that little inside joke did nothing to squelch the nervous buzzing in his stomach. He washed it over with another swallow of cold beer.

 

“Right in the chops, though. I hope that doesn't leave a scar. He has such a beautiful face.”

 

The feed was live again, the trainer pressing a towel to Kurosaki's face. Grimmjow was still watching, still waiting for Ichigo to get up and shake it off like he was supposed to do, when one of his guests spoke up, then the other. Rather, they _had_ been all along, and he just hadn't heard any of it.

 

“Oh, yeah.” The voice closest to his flank crooned, the sound turning toward him. “He does. Dontcha think, Grimmjow?” The other one following behind.

 

“I'd hit that.”

 

Dark eyelashes fluttered once at the sound of his name, and his gazed darted briefly to his left before retraining on the screen. On Ichigo. Grimmjow grunted, distracted but answering in earnest.

 

“Hn? Yeah. He's alright. He can take a hit.” There was some sort of snort from beside him.

 

Yeah, yeah. He'd brushed them off. They could suck it. What did they want from him? He was responsive at least, but the bluenet was still tight with tension inside and out. Ichigo was just barely pulling his knees underneath him when the team's medical staff had reached him and crammed a towel against his face to staunch the flow. Grimmjow frowned, unaware he was doing so.

 

_Get up._

  
A moment passed as the team's doctor leaned in tight, almost head to head in the same turtle-ish position as Ichigo, to question the downed player. The answers were few and brief. Grimmjow glared hard at the screen.  
  
 _You're fine. It's just blood. Get the fuck up._

 

The crowd applauded in encouragement, something they did for all injured players, while number fifteen was slowly helped to his feet. He stayed tightly hunched over though, orange spikes in disarray, face hidden, one of the staff holding the towel that was catching his blood as they guided him blind off the ice. The bluenet nodded to himself.

 

_Good boy._

 

Grimmjow cracked his neck as he finally allowed himself to relax back into the softness of his leather sofa, beer coming to rest on his lap.

 

“Think he'll need stitching up, Grim?” The bluenet lifted his drink and took a slow and much needed swig. He let out an unapologetic belch before he finally regarded the spirited and slightly sauced pair who were part ways tangled up beside him.

 

One eye narrowed on the two men. Mmmessin' up his couch.

 

He looked back to the game. By now, Ichigo was being treated in the locker room. He might be back. Stitched up or worse.

 

“Hn. Could do,” he rumbled.

 

He hoped not. It was par for the course, hockey players being stitched back together on the fly and shuffled back out onto the ice, sometimes even sporting noses that had been reassigned to some other part of their face. Grimmjow snorted to himself, a sardonic twist to his lip. Both he and Ichigo had managed to avoid permanent disfiguring injuries this long. It would be kind of a shame to mare those good looks up now.

 

“Sooo, you guys are pretty chummy these days...”

 

Grimmjow snapped to.

 

There was a deep smile in the voice, a sound that made Grimmjow turn his head more quickly than he would have intended had it not caught him quite so off guard. And how did they know? Oh right. The papers. There'd been a few mentions about them. But...

 

Chummy? He wouldn't have used that word. Chummy was what _these_ two goofballs were.

 

“Yeah, how's that going?”

 

“Yeah. Are you friends now? Did you… work it all out?” Blue eyes narrowed in thought, and the enforcer tilted his head slightly. He allowed a few seconds to tick by, like he was actually mulling it over, then took a breath as if he were about to launch into great detail.

 

“Good. Yes. Sure.”

 

He ignored the critical looks he got for his abrupt reply and went back to the game. But he frowned internally at himself for the last one. It was a lie. They hadn't worked anything out at all. That hurdle still lay ahead of them.

 

“Oh.... That's good.” The seemingly casual remark had a definite conspiratory quality to it that made Grimmjow cringe a little. He clenched his jaw as he waited, pretending his focus was still on the game. The momentary silence seemed to stretch, and the enforcer could just hear the freight train bearing down on him... in three... two....

 

“Just that you looked a little worried just now.” Blue eyes widened fractionally. No, he didn't. Did he? He hadn't realized he was being scrutinized or he would've masked it or something.

 

“Yeah. Like... _really_ worried.” Grimmjow glanced sideways, grumbling sharply.

 

“Well, I wasn't.”

 

“Okay. Well...” Another silence. “Half your beer is on the floor.”

 

Naturally, he glanced down.

 

He scowled.

 

So, it was.

 

“Just saying.”

 

Grimmjow felt his shoulders slump. But he refused to allow himself to actually sigh out loud in defeat. Or cross his eyes. He took a small breath in. They were straying into very personal territory. Things even Grimmjow wasn't entirely sure about.

 

The mini inquisition was nothing new to him, though. It was a bit like dealing with the media, except that these guys were okay. Still. Somehow.

 

Grimmjow had his own way of handling these situations. Each question and answer encounter he had was like a skirmish. And the only way to win was to tackle it head on.

 

The enforcer squinted in thought as he twisted sideways and clutched at his chest with one large hand... all melodramatic-like.

 

“He's my teammate,” he rumbled, a small sneer forming. “And the thought'a any of my teammates getting hurt just brings a fuckin' tear to my eye.”

 

Grimmjow waited a beat. And the two men just stared back at him, delightfully bereft of words. He watched their eyes travel from his face, to his chest and back. The fact that his knuckles were large and scary and quite visible against his chest probably had more impact than anything he'd said.

 

He smirked and sat back again, throwing one elbow up on the back of the couch between them. He raised his beer in a mock salute then brought it to his mouth, partially hooded eyes still on the silent couple.

 

“Plus, if he gets hurt and can't pull his weight, it means I gotta play even harder to make up for his lazy ass.” Grimmjow's eyes drooped even more in surly, smug satisfaction at the vaguely disgruntled expressions he was receiving.  
  
He took a sip as he looked back to the game again.

 

There. That aughta shut'em up.

 

“Remember when you punched him the face?”

 

Grimmjow blinked. And turned. Slowly. Mouth almost gaping in a mix of wonderment and growing exasperation. But two pairs of wide eyes merrily smiled back at him.

 

He sucked his lips back together, nose flaring at the change in air pressure, and considered them for a moment. And their comment.  
  
He wasn't giving up any intel... and now they were giving him shit for it.

 

Grimmjow squinted. Hn. Fair enough.  
  
If it were anybody else, he'd might find it in him to be a little pissed off. But it was these guys. And it was the beer talking. They weren't usually like this in the hall. They were mature... more than even Grimmjow on his best day. And they were professionals, businessmen during work hours, and as successful and dedicated to their craft as Grimmjow was to his.

 

This was their unwinding time. They earned it, and Grimmjow knew what it was to need it. And he could definitely use some himself right about now, come to think on it.

 

But unwinding time or not, they were calling him out in his own home, and Grimmjow's brows lowered into a deep glower in response.

 

For all the good it did. He sniffed and shook his head. It didn't appear to threaten the two men in the slightest. Was no surprise, really. They weren't small fry, and they took care of themselves. In fact, Grimmjow still couldn't guess which one was the man in the relationship. Not that it fucking mattered.

 

Grimmjow smirked.

 

“His mouth needed adjusting.” The two men looked back at him and deadpanned in unison.

 

“...repeatedly....” The enforcer's eye twitched, but he held their gaze easily, a grin spreading, slow and sharp.

 

“Fine tuning,” he sneered.

 

“Ahh.” one of them nodded, for a moment looking _appropriately_ intimidated. “Well, promise us you won't do that again.” His guests nodded at each other.

 

“Yeah. He's too pretty to mess up.”

 

One of Grimmjow's eyebrows shot skywards. Pretty?

 

“Hottest guy on the team,” the other agreed, nodding to his partner, who quickly corrected him, palms rising toward their host in a placating gesture.

 

“Oh, but not as pretty as you, Grim.”

 

Grimmjow's look of bemusement shifted into one of vague annoyance. He could hardly stand the two grossly seductive, yet supremely cheesy smiles that were beaming at him. And all this cutesie pretty talking shit was just... the way they were hamming it up and trying to draw him into their fairy flirty little game was just... Well, making fun of their own kind was what it was.

 

No. That thought seemed a bit trifling. And he could handle an advance from just about anyone. No sweat off his back. Maybe, it was just a bit more intimate than he was used to. And they'd involved Ichigo. And for some reason, he didn't like it.  
  
And now they were waiting for him to say something back.

 

He raised the beer in his hand to his mouth, pausing as the soft moist skin of his lower lip made contact with the dry metal rim; sticking.

 

But he had to admit, he couldn't find a reason to argue their logic. Kurosaki _was_ kinda... pretty. Didn't even matter if he was scowling or smiling, ignoring him or yelling at him, he was just...

 

He threw a load of cold canned suds down his too dry throat.

 

“Che.” Turning to the side and leaning back, the enforcer opened his arms wide and gestured down at his own “magnificent” body, feeling the birth and growth of his own cocky grin. “Don't need ta state the obvious.”

 

“True. They don't come finer than you...”

 

“And we've seen all of your fine self.” The two men nodded in shameless agreement while Grimmjow snorted despite himself. They certainly had. But then, who hadn't?

 

“Yeah. So... does the second hottest guy on the team have a girlfriend?” Grimmjow's arms lowered, and he sat back again, appeased but now a little wary. Ichigo didn't like talking about his personal life, or lack thereof, on the whole, and Grimmjow didn't want to give too much away on him.

 

He shrugged.

 

“... Hn. Don't think so.”

 

“Or a boyfriend? 'Cause I'll cheat on _this_ guy for _him_.” The sound of skin smacking skin was instant.

 

“Hey!”

 

Any trace of amusement that may have lingered on the enforcer's face drained away, and he stared at the two bickering lovers in silence, considering them at once as if they were nothing more than a stain on his floor.

 

“Hey. Everybody gets one.”

 

“Says who?”

 

“It's in the contract.”

 

“What contract? We don't have a contract.”

 

“The couples contract. It's like... a universal constant or something.”

 

“Feh. Or bullshit or something...”

 

“No. Everybody gets one famous person they're allowed to bang if the opportunity ever comes up. No consequences.”

 

“And you... ? That's... SO not happening! And you're sleeping on the couch...”

 

“Hey, I haven't even done it yet! And it's not my fault if you haven't picked someone.”

 

“Well, maybe I don't want someone else.”

 

“And as usual, you're missing the point entirely. It's a one off freebie with the sexual conquest of your wet dreams.”

  
“You're not supposed to have wet dreams about other guys when you have me. Why would you even want that?”  
  
“Uh.... A change of pace?”

 

“I thought you liked my pace?”

 

“I love your pace. But I still get a freebie and mine is Kurosaki Ichigo. And he's fair game if you ask me.”

 

“Then I want him as my freebie to.”

 

“No way. I called dibs on him first.”

 

“You can't call dibs.”

 

“Can too. And I did.”  
  


“Well, then... I forbid it.”

 

“You are so spiteful. Lots of couples do it. And who doesn't have someone they'd wanna fuck just once if they could?”  
  
“I don't.”

 

“And I don't believe you. Even Grimmjow... In fact... Grimmjow, who's _your_ freebie?”

 

They both finally looked up at the very still and very soundless enforcer with differing expressions, but with equal expectation.

 

“...”

 

Grimmjow lifted his beer, siphoned it in four gulps, and leaned forward to rise. The thought of either of these two getting down and dirty with his Ichigo just... rankled him.

 

“...I'mma get another beer.”

 

He ignored the disapproving grumbles, and the renewal of the bickering his answer had incited, and heaved himself off the couch. He thumped his way around the hanging television screen and retreated into the open concept kitchen. But instead of raiding the fridge for another beer, he stopped at the sink and lifted the tap, and poured himself a glass of water.  
  
Something not Ichigo.  
  
Something healthy.  
  
He still had training to think about tomorrow. It was easy to get distracted and fall into bad habits when you weren't looking.

 

The game continued on behind him. The third period had been nearing the halfway mark when Ichigo went down. And the Reaper's were ahead. They'd probably win this one.

 

Grimmjow stood in front of the sink and downed most of the glass of water before he turned to head back to the living room and ride out the last of the game with his neighbors, his expression set as if he was deliberating the meaning of the universe... and almost had it.

 

The two idiots on his couch might be bickering, but they were gaining ground in their relationship by doing so. Even if they hit rough patches - like unfortunately now - they were good together and they'd come out stronger on the other side.

 

He and Ichigo should be doing the same thing.

 

They'd said and done a lot of shit to each other since they'd started working together. They were getting along a lot better now, but there was still this tension between them. Grimmjow didn't like it. Maybe it was time to clear the air. He didn't like bringing up old wounds, didn't see the point much. But maybe if they put a few things to rest, things would feel easier. Yeah. It was worth a shot.

 

Fuck not being able to talk about hockey. Next time he saw him, they were gonna call up some ghosts and lay them to rest.


	26. Chapter 26

“Reapers hustle, hit, and never quit!”  
  
Though it was hardly noticed over the din of the busy bar they'd been invited to, the voice of the Soul Reapers' captain carried with ease across the group of tables where they'd all assembled themselves. Twenty one of his peers and allies looked his way (just one body missing tonight) and without hesitation, Kensei's rallying cry was met with exuberant and equally loud whoops and shouts of approval from the group of rowdy young men. They were well worked out after their game, but they were young and winning and still had plenty of spitfire left to carry them late into the night.  
  
The sound of half filled glasses coming together followed. It was less a proper toast and more a pileup of partially filled glasses by that point. The guys had the next two days off and they were celebrating their third straight win with perhaps more fierce determination that they had used to clinch them in the first place.  
  
Kensei looked across the table and caught Ichigo's eye as he took a short draw from his glass, nodding to him. Ichigo ghosted a smile back before his attention was snatched away again by a very chatty and slightly sloshed Shiro.  
  
Their most recent wins were much in thanks to their newest addition to the team. He'd come in strong, fought through bad weather, and, as perseverance was the name of the game, Ichigo had finally appeared to be coming back true.  
  
“To winning!” A pie-faced Renji thrust his glass towards the center of their table, yet again, an amber patch of neat wet whiskey spreading like liquid honey from where it crested over the side of his glass. The rest of the men paused, their rampant conversations cut short once more by the goaltender's messy toast, and glasses shot forth in a melee of testosterone and alcohol fueled celebration. And also to save the whiskey.   
  
“To winning,” they repeated, each man's voice rolling together into a single sound.  
  
Ichigo raised his glass as well and started to take a sip of the beer he didn't really want. His phone chose that moment to buzz in his pocket. He preferred coolers to suds, but it was considered girly, thus worthy of endless teasing from the boys. So, he stuck to beer and shots of whatever was being ordered. He reached around between his back and the chair he was settled into and pulled it free.  
  
It was a text from Grimmjow.  
  
Ichigo stared at his phone for a moment, beer and people around him fading to a buzz. Well, that was a first.  
  
 **Grimmjow:** _ **Good game. How's your face?**_ _  
  
_Ichigo hesitated a moment before he tapped at the screen with his thumbs. The game had been over for two hours, and the team had flown south-west of home for it, well beyond the reach of the harsh winter storm Karakura was currently being blanketed by. They weren't in the same time zone. It was only 10:30pm where Ichigo was. He forgot what the time difference was, but he knew it was either one or two hours later back home. He knew Grimmjow had been sacking out early since his injury, so he was surprised the guy would still be up. _  
  
_ **Ichigo:** _ **Thanks. Nothing broken. What time is it there?  
  
**_ **Grimmjow:** _ **That's a shame. 12:30**_ _  
  
_Ichigo frowned and typed the only thing he could think of. They never texted. They had only ever called each other a couple of times to meet up. They were both men of their word and stuck to whatever plans they made on the phone. So, this was new ground for Ichigo. _  
  
_ **Ichigo:** _ **Fuck you.**_ _  
  
_It was a long ten seconds before he finally got a reply. _  
  
_ **Grimmjow:** _ **Only if you buy me a drink first.**_ _  
  
_Ichigo's expression darkened, the simple text making his heart speed up just a little. He wanted to chew Grimmjow out for being perverted, but it was safer to ignore the remark and change the subject. If he was lucky, Grimmjow would move on.  
  
 **Ichigo:** _ **Surprised an old man like you is still awake. Or did you just have to piss?  
  
**_ **Grimmjow:** _ **Can't piss with a hard on like this one. Lying naked in bed just thinking about you.**_ _  
  
_Brown eyes flew open before Ichigo caught himself and schooled his expression, suddenly remembering exactly where he was; in a busy bar, sandwiched between two teammates at a table strewn with half eaten appetizers, beer mugs and shot glasses. He quickly dropped the phone beneath the edge of the table and stabbed at the screen. His old person reference had clearly annoyed Grimmjow. Good. But that was about as much of that kind of talk as Ichigo could handle coming from him.  
 **  
**But then, Ichigo was never that good at just walking away, especially if it meant admitting defeat. He smirked even through his scowl as he typed, adding another age related parting shot of his own. _  
  
_ **Ichigo:** _ **Fuck off! Disgusting old man.  
  
**_ **Grimmjow:** _ **HAH! Who's yer daddy?**_ _  
  
_The enforcer's come back was hardly two seconds behind Ichigo's. Shit. Ichigo was fairly drunk at the moment. He must be to be drawn into a text war with Grimmjow this easily. The boys had encouraged him through two beers and two potent shots since they'd gotten here not even an hour ago. In fact, his face felt a little numb and his nose throbbed less now than it had since he'd been caught by that high stick during the game. But how had he even managed to end up in this conversation?  
  
 **Ichigo:** _ **Shut up, shithead. What is WRONG with you?**_ **  
  
Grimmjow:** _ **Heh. Bored and can't sleep. What r u doing?**_  
  
Grimmjow was finally being serious. Thank god.  
  
 **Ichigo:** _ **Not the same thing as you, obviously.  
  
**_ So, then why was Ichigo still prodding at him, dangerously extending the subject regarding Grimmjow's... current situation? Which was only a joke... right? Right? _ **  
  
**_ **Grimmjow:** _ **So? What r u doing?  
  
**_ **Ichigo:** _ **We're at a pub by the hotel.**_ **  
  
Grimmjow:** _ **Sounds fun. But I'd rather be lying in bed naked. You flying back tonight?  
**_ **  
Ichigo:** _ **Did not need to know that. Tomorrow morning.  
  
**_ **Grimmjow:** _ **Why wait? Catch a red eye and keep me company. It's cold here. I need someone to keep me warm.  
  
**_ **Ichigo:** _ **You know why. The storm. And this is Ichigo, idiot. You do know what number you called?  
  
Grimmjow: Of course I know it's you, baby. Your name's right there.  
  
**_ **Ichigo:** _ **Are you on drugs?  
  
**_ **Grimmjow:** _ **Never. You gonna fly home to me or not? It's scary here all by myself.  
  
**_ **Ichigo:** _ **I'd be scared if I were alone in a room with you too.  
  
**_ He didn't add “with an erection”. No. That would've have set off all kinds of fireworks that Ichigo would regret. He waited for a bubble of text to pop up as he slouched in his seat and peered down towards the phone he was holding beneath the shadow of the table. The loud bar sounds and chatter around him were constant but remote. **  
** _ **  
**_ **Grimmjow:** _ **Not very nice. Well, can you at least talk me off?  
  
**_ **Ichigo:** _ **Sick. Go jerk off by yourself. You're such an idiot.  
  
**_ **Grimmjow:** _ **So mean to me. At least keep me company till I fall asleep.  
  
**_ **Ichigo:** _ **Watch TV. I'm busy.  
  
**_ **Grimmjow:** _ **Aww. Common. I'm being serious. What are you guys drinking?  
  
**_ Ichigo sighed. He'd say it was kind of unfair that they were all here having a good time, except that Grimmjow had a choice of whether he wanted to come to their games or not, and he'd chosen not to so far. But it was nice to see Grimmjow taking an interest in his own team again. He'd been so cut off lately from most of the guys. Quite a few of them had tried texting and calling, but Grimmjow's responses were usually very short and guarded. From what he'd seen and heard, this was easily the longest text message Grimmjow had taken part in since his injury. _ **  
  
**_ **Ichigo:** _ **Beer and shots.  
  
**_ **Grimmjow:** _ **That's it. Just keep talking.  
  
**_ **Ichigo** _ **: About what?  
  
**_ **Grimmjow:** _ **Almost there....  
  
**_ **Ichigo:** _ **Almost where? What are you talking about?  
  
**_ **Grimmjow:** _ **Aaaaaand...... Oh Shit. Oh Fuck... Oh yeah. Thanks buddy.  
**_ **  
**Brown eyes, darkened by the low light of the bar, narrowed as he stared at the screen, head tilting before the words registered completely. His eyes widened fractionally before his face went entirely slack. He took in a breath, face set in bored irritation, and stabbed the keyboard one last time. _ **  
  
**_ **Ichigo:** _ **Don't ever text me again.  
  
**_ **Grimmjow:** _ **But I can't live without you.  
  
**_ “Well that was interesting.”  
  
Ichigo's head shot up from where he'd hunched closer to his phone. He turned and craned his neck to see Shinji gazing cheerfully down at him from over his shoulder.  
  
“Mind your own...” Ichigo started to grumble. He had reflexively drawn his phone towards his chest when he was startled, but the weight of it was suddenly gone from his hands, and his head whipped in the other direction.  
  
“What the hell?!” he snapped, face the picture of furious **.** “Give it back. Now,” he growled. He made to grab for it, but it had already been passed quickly down the table and far out of his reach.  
  
“Holy shit! You got Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez sext messaging ya?”  
  
Ichigo cringed. The voice belonged to Ikkaku, his eyes wide with manic joy as he speed scrolled through Ichigo's very personal messages.  
  
“Dude! Pass that over!” Renji leaned out of his chair, excitement in his voice singing of potential mischief. Ichigo felt the urge to drop his head on the table. The phone was tossed and caught, Renji instantly being leaned on by two neighboring teammates as he quickly worked his way down towards Ichigo's humiliation.  
  
It was Yumichika Ayasegawa who's head popped up first.  
  
“We didn't know you guys were getting along _that_ well!” he chirped with a quick flutter of his long eyelashes.  
  
“We're not!” Ichigo fumed. “He's on drugs or something.” He let his arm fall outstretched onto the table, palm up, willing himself to keep his cool. “Now are you done?”  
  
“Grimmjow doesn't _do_ drugs.” Ichigo's attention snapped briefly to his right, “I can assure you of that,” where Kensei lounged at the head of the table and grinned knowingly. He wrinkled his nose as he smiled. “He's just into you.”  
  
“Aren't you supposed to be the intelligent one of this group?” Ichigo deadpanned. Kensei's smile only broadened.  
  
“With great wisdom... comes the right to stir the pot.”  
  
A pair of hands on his shoulders only barely made Ichigo flinch as Shinji made his presence known again. Ichigo had forgotten he was even standing there.  
  
“Hey, Chigo, you could do worse. He's hot and he's rich. And I'm sure he'd treat you real nice and.... Oof!”  
  
Ichigo's elbow found it's way into Shinji's guts like a bullet, but it didn't make Ichigo feel that much better. There was a wheeze from behind him.  
  
“I'm not gonna hit you back,” Shinji squeaked before dropping to the floor, “because you're injured.”  
  
“That's the spirit Ichigo,” Renji goaded from across the table and a safe number of seats away. “Grimmjow likes it rough!”  
  
Ichigo turned to curse him out, but Kensei's voice had him glaring back the other way again.  
  
“...just a little stir,” he smiled.  
  
“Sounds like Grimmjow really misses Ichigo's body moves, boys,” Renji announced loudly from the other end of the table.  
  
“Hah! So, all that fighting was just a lovers quarrel,” Ikkaku added, snorts and giggles at the table increasing, Even Shiro and Shuhei Hisagi were full on laughing, and they were usually the nicer ones.  
  
Kensei grinned. “...sooo easy.”  
  
Ichigo's jaw clenched and unclenched as he leaned back into his seat, both palms raised and pressing hard into his eyes, a dark sound grinding in the back of his throat. Until he yipped and pulled them away. The throb in his nose and lip were sudden and sharp from the pressure change. And just when he'd nearly forgotten about them.  
  
“Shit,” he hissed, hands pulling away and dropping in defeat.  
  
There was no point trying to force them to return it. Keep-away was not a game that would get old fast for his teammates. They would have their fun. Grimmjow would bug him about whatever stupid text they were no doubt sending, and then Ichigo could forget the whole thing.  
  
Except that he knew he wouldn't be able to forget the suggestive comments the enforcer had made. It was beyond anything he'd said or done so far. He could only hope it was a one time thing, or else, he would be taking a lot of long showers. A scraping sound brought his palms down from his eyes as the phone skidded to a stop in front him. It was brightly lit with a big colorful bubble of text consuming most of the screen.  
  
 **Ichigo:** _ **I'm sorry! I love you SOOO much Grimmjow. I wanna fly home to you so you can throw me down on that big bed of yours and take me to heaven. You're so big. I just wanna be your boy toy and have you give it to me hard. Kisses. Ichigo**_  
  
Ichigo glowered at his phone as he read what “he'd” just sent to Grimmjow. He hadn't expected it back already, but after only a minute, his phone had been passed back down the table to him. He could feel his face heating up under the gaze of at least half his team, but other than to call them assholes, which he did, he said nothing. He was pissed at Grimmjow to be sure, and at the boys. He glared more daggers at the screen, scrolling to find out what other carnage was on there, until he finally saw what Grimmjow had said in return. Furrowed brows quickly pinched into something closer to mild confusion as he read the short note.  
  
 **Grimmjow:** _ **Give him back his phone NOW, assholes. Nobody picks on Ichigo but me.**  
_  
Ichigo blinked. That explained the speedy return of his phone. Grimmjow was actually being kind of nice. Maybe Ichigo could consider forgiving him... one day.... in the distant future... perhaps.  
  
The feeling didn't last.  
  
“Grimmjow sure is protective of him,” Hisagi cooed.  
  
“Yeah, Ichigo, you gotta be giving it to him _right_ to bring out his sweet side like that,” Renji bellowed, hand hitting the table.  
  
“Letting _Grimmjow_ give it to _Ichigo_ , you mean,” corrected Shiro.  
  
Ichigo looked at Shiro in an “et tu brute” sort of way when the pale player flashed him a pseudo innocent grin.  
  
“Way to take a thick one for the team Ichigo,” added Ikkaku, raising his glass. The others followed before descending into laughter and turning up their own.  
  
“Ya gotta be careful though, Ichi. Grimmjow puts the _player_ in team player!” Ichigo didn't even notice who said that.  
  
“We need shots!” Or that.  
  
“Somebody get Ichigo a Blow Job!” Or that.  
  
“No! Grimmjow'll get jealous!” Whatever.  
  
“You're all idiots,” Ichigo said sourly.  
  
Ichigo flipped the bird in their general direction, loosely enough to cover the entire group at his table. He raised his other hand to flag their waitress who was passing by. She stepped up to him and leaned in close, a hand on his shoulder and cleavage lowered to his line of sight.  
  
“Yes, honey?” she smiled, her long hair brushing against his own. He didn't quite scowl at her, but he didn't smile either.  
  
“Can I get two more shots, whiskey this time, and another beer.” She nodded and squeezed. “Thanks.”  
  
He didn't usually overdo his liquor, but Grimmjow's joking had hit far closer to home than the enforcer could have imagined. It struck Ichigo right in the gut with a visual he didn't need.  
  
And the teasing from his teammates, as much as gay jokes in their world were run of the mill, left him shaken. If they ever knew what they thought they knew, Ichigo's career could go up in smoke. All this was just a cold hard reminder of how easily his secret could be spilled.

 **X X X**  
  
Back in Karakura, the cold wind and heavy snowfall that the blizzard had brought with it continued to blow and spin its way through the night.  
  
Grimmjow wasn't aware of the storm from the comforts of his master bedroom. The dimly lit room was warm, and the ceiling fan spun lazily above him as he reclined on his bed, leaning against the pillow he'd tucked between the darkly stained wooden headboard and his broad bare back. A pair of loose black sweat pants had dragged so low onto his hips as to be nearly off of them when he'd finally shuffled himself into a comfortable position a short while ago. The thick base of his smooth semi was peeking out from beneath the edges of his untied waste band.  
  
He smirked as he sat on top of his comforter and texted his teammate. Ichigo was literally over a thousand miles away. It was strange, but it was a deeply satisfying sensation to know he could have an affect on the younger man, even from the comfort of his bed, and a with them both in a different country.  
  
He was grinning to himself as he hit send one last time. This message wasn't just for Ichigo, though. He was letting the boys know to stand down, otherwise they'd probably ride the kid relentlessly for the rest of the night, and even into tomorrow. And that was Grimmjow's job. Something had to be left for him to play with tomorrow. He knew he'd pissed Ichigo off enough for one night. There were levels to a man's anger. And he'd found over time, that teasing him wasn't as much fun if Ichigo was actually angry to the point of holding a grudge or storming off. He'd done it before.  
  
He glanced at the last message Ichigo had sent to him one more time and chuckled before placing the phone on the nightstand closest to him. It was a toss up, as he always tended to drift towards the centre of the bed. It was all his most of the time. Even the women he'd brought into his bedroom weren't usually invited to stay the night. It happened, occasionally, out of social convention, when the hours were too late or the weather was to raw to send a lady home by herself. But it was rare.  
  
After the game was over, and his two guests had left him to his own devices, Grimmjow had stayed up and flicked through the TV until he found something satisfying to watch. He'd been heading to bed early since his injury, but he was starting to find himself able to stay up later the past few days. Which was a good sign. He was a to-bed-late and up-early kind of guy if the situation called for it.  
  
He wasn't sure whether tomorrow would call for it or not. He and Ichigo had plans for tomorrow but they hadn't set a time yet. Up until he'd seen Ichigo get slashed in the face with a high stick, the storm had been the deciding factor. The team would likely choose to play it safe and spend the night down south. It made sense to avoid the storm that had settled over Karakura and the rest of the region for the night. But he had to be sure.  
  
That was the reason Grimmjow had texted in the first place. But as soon as he'd had Ichigo in his hands, taking his attention away from wherever it was at, and putting it right into Grimmjow's lap as it were, he'd felt excited. And curious to know how badly Ichigo was injured. He'd left the last period under his own power, but there hadn't been any updates since then.  
  
With both of those questions on his mind, falling asleep suddenly felt like the last thing he wanted to do. It didn't help that he had tried to put himself to bed without dealing with the far too pleasant tingle that had started up once he was alone, like a slow sneeze was forming in his sweats. The combination of subtly exciting sensations had messed with his brain. It made him feel extra playful. A cat stalking a mouse... if the cat had an unhealthy attraction to the mouse.  
  
Grimmjow frowned as he pulled a few tissues from the box next to the phone. He might as well take care of it or he'd be a cranky son of a bitch tomorrow.  
  
He snorted a short puff of air.  
  
He'd lied about being naked.  
  
But – he looked down at the top of his sweats – he wasn't lying about the erection. And apparently, if someone were to be picky about it, he wasn't lying about thinking about Ichigo. Well shit. He grunted to himself. What the hell did that say about him? A grin tugged at him, turning into a small smile. He had poor timing. Disgusting timing.  
  
Grimmjow could live with being a little disgusting.  
  
What the hell. Maybe this would get it outta his system. He tried not to think too much about it as his hand slid beneath the rim of the black material that covered the growing firmness and clenched loosely around it.  
  
 _The blush on his face though..._  
  
The other hand yanked the cloth past his hips and out of the way. He grunted then hummed low in his throat. And it was only a moment before he was fully hard and hips began to buck into a tightened fist.

  
  



	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK. This will be the last chapter update for awhile. What I've posted so far was already written and posted on my other site. I've been working on the next chapter(s) for months. And it could be months before I get anything finished. Combo of writer's block and lack of enthusiasm for life in general.  
> Yeah... some of us writerly types can be a basket case. ;)  
> Once I get going again, you can expect anywhere from 4-6 more chapters. But I really can't say. It's all written out roughly in an unfinished mushy mess, and it's hard to tell how much it will grow as I go through and tidy up and add to it. It usually just keeps growing.  
> Until then, thanks for all the reading and reviewing! JB ; )

It was well after noon when Grimmjow's day finally began to get as interesting as his night had been.  
  
He'd finished his morning workout, showered, dressed, then gathered his hockey bag and set it by the door. With energy to spare.  
  
He'd slept well. Really well.  
  
Fuck. He'd practically knocked himself out with one of the most intense orgasms he'd experienced in a long time. And hell if it hadn't been with his own five fingers. He'd let his thighs fall open, and his hand squeeze and kneed, then thrust roughly into the tight heat of his palm. He'd firmed up in an instant, eyes snapping shut, heart building speed and breath going ragged. He was there again. Plunging. Overpowering. Driving himself in. Fighting against tightness and clenching, working his way into a space so tight that the only way to get there was to push. His thoughts grew more intense, more explicit. That space being forced apart, giving up, spreading open around him. _For him_. A body wanting and breaking under him, taking his load with a noise that was both desperate and tortured, nearly indefinable; an apocalyptic _sound._ **  
**  
He'd worked himself off for only a few minutes, and then, Jesus, that thing had fountained.  
  
He didn't exactly stop afterward to ponder where that had come from. Or when _imagining_ had become better than the real thing.  
  
It was good. That was enough. Fuck, it was good.  
  
Shit, he hadn't even had the energy to do little more than kick his sweats off and mop-up with a handful of bunched up tissues before he'd closed his eyes and passed right out. The tissues were still in a dried clump on the bedside table when he woke up, right where he'd tossed them. Right beside his phone. He'd gone for _that_ first thing, glad he'd had enough muscle control left after he'd cum to miss hitting it.  
  
He felt himself wake in a hurry. Turned out he'd gotten another text from Ichigo late last night, sometime after he'd fallen asleep. So, he'd missed it. Shame. But the text was there, on his phone, when he'd risen and scrolled – naked and yawning and filing his nails across his scalp - through his messages. Like a shiny little beacon, the name had had his thumb working against the screen before anything else could even capture a whiff of his attention.  
  
And it had somehow set the tone for the day as he sat with his long legs stretched out over the side of his bed.  
  
The message was a simple confirmation that they were going to meet up today. And a time. As well as a note that Ichigo needed to make a couple of charity related stops along the way to their destination.  
  
Grimmjow was almost surprised that Ichigo had kept to their plans after the way he'd messed with him last night. He'd also recognized the abrupt sense of anticipation he'd felt when he saw that the message was from Ichigo, which was annoying at the time.  
  
It still was. And made all the more annoying because, now awake, he realized, that for the second time, he'd jacked it with Kurosaki Ichigo anywhere near his thoughts.  
  
For a moment, he'd hesitated to reply to the text. Once was forgivable. Twice was becoming a habit. And a bad one. He was really starting to wonder about himself.  
  
Now, Grimmjow didn't have a problem with the idea of experimentation. Especially sexual. Whatever got your rocks off, and all. Unless you were half dead, everyone had their preferences and their kinks. But it had never really been on _his_ mind to experiment with guys.  
  
Now, on some level, it most certainly fucking was.  
  
That ass he'd been thinking about. That image. That was _not_ female. That was _not_ rounded, or feminine, or _soft_ in any way. _That_ was athletic, perfectly rounded, toned, and dense-thick with muscles, a memory – fat and sharpened by weeks of close-quartered exposure - of a gorgeous, brick-ass backside that belonged to his wanna-be better half. He should know. He was the one having the experience. **  
**  
Well, he'd clearly gone way too long without getting laid properly if an image the likeness of Kurosaki was starting to look like a good idea. **  
  
**But he rationalized his way out (he knew it) and figured, fuck it. He had one or two of his own fetishes, and this was just another one to add to the shortlist. Girl's ass or guy's ass. He wasn't gonna sweat it. He had way too much on his mind to worry about who or what he jacked off to. What with coming back for the second time this season, taking care of his ma, and trying like hell to figure out this whole Kurosaki problem. **  
**  
He grunted, giving himself a stern head shake.  
  
How the hell had he ended up with Kurosaki being twice the problem he'd ever been?  
  
Grimmjow's car idled in it's spot as he studied the cement structure that rose high into the skyline beyond the tinted glass of the driver's side window.  
  
He had his choice of parking spots in the visitor's section, the bulk of the heavy snowfall having already been cleared away from last night's vicious storm by the efficient staff at Kurosaki Ichigo's tidy little apartment complex. His lip twitched into a sneer before he turned away and shut off the engine then popped the trunk.  
  
Grimmjow opened the door, the heavy tread of his winter boot biting into the cold snow-covered pavement with a grinding creak as he hauled himself out of the darkness of his heated car and rose into white-bright, crisp, and frigid winter air. A cold snap.  
  
His breath puffed out, caught on frozen air, and fell away.  
  
He shut the door and stepped around the back of the car. It didn't really bother him. The cold. He was born into it. It made him. It raised him. It gave him a life, a passion, a purpose, and a means to live well. That wasn't to say he didn't ultimately prefer the freedoms and pleasures that the heat of summer provided. The feel of the sun's heat out on the water, the lazy sprawl of humid summer nights, and the light feel of bare skin. They were all much less hassle than bundling up for the arctic air and sludging through drifts of snow.  
  
He also never took that time for granted, because those few precious months in between the hockey season took the pressure of being an enforcer off of him for awhile.  
  
And Grimmjow was a lucky one. He could pursue other interests. He didn't have to play the good boyfriend or be Mr. mom like many of the players with families did. He was free to do his own thing. Like hitting a club when he felt that restless need, or renting a cottage by himself or with a couple of buddies and jet skiing off the beach. Camping out under the stars by the fire was the best. Traveling and exploring were never boring. Hell, even a game of golf wasn't beyond Grimmjow's scope, as much of a joke as it was in the hockey world. He liked everything.  
  
The summer months weren't all his though. At their level, the players only received a few weeks off from training. That never stopped in the NHL. Fitness had to be kept up; strength, reflexes, cardiovascular. And for most guys, it only took a few weeks off to lose that physical edge, and to have to work three times as hard just to hope to catch up.   
  
Physicality was right in Grimmjow's wheelhouse. But the enforcing part; the game, the fans, the pressure... even though he loved it, the pressure was immense. And despite the bruises, the physical exhaustion, the injuries, that pressure was perhaps still more internal for him than anything.   
  
The pressure of the game, of enforcing. The balance he brought to it. He was going back to all of that soon. And when he did, he'd have a handle on it.  
  
He reached into the trunk and pulled out the heavy, black, Reapers' hockey bag that held his gear, then picked up a full black garbage bag and a handful of towels that wouldn't fit. He slammed the trunk lid shut and locked the car.  
  
Amongst the few donations they were going to make today, Ichigo had told Grimmjow in his text - told him - that they were going skating.  
  
He gave a small snort of amusement as he lifted the thick strap of the heavy bag of gear over his shoulder and started towards the front entrance. Ichigo wouldn't tell him where, which was odd, just that he had access to an indoor arena for a few hours. As much as Grimmjow needed to get back on his skates again, he didn't much see the point of skating in circles or shuffling a puck around the ice with Ichigo. He was heading back to practice in a day anyway, where he'd be getting a proper chance to test his sea legs again.  
  
But Ichigo had specifically said, “bring your gear”. Now _that_ caught Grimmjow's attention. He wasn't usually one to miss details. And that was a pretty big one.  
  
 **X X X  
  
** Now, there were moments in a young man's life, such as Ichigo's, where he felt he had a relative handle on things. Like the good ones, where he passed a test, nailed an interview, made the team, or even had a deep nod of respect from his crazy father.  
  
Or the great ones, where he fixed his little sister's bike and then watched her pedal off down the road like she was driving a brand new Ferrari.   
  
And then were those other more disturbing occasions, the ones where his world promptly did an awkward sideways turn. And Ichigo was left wondering just one thing. What the hell had just happened? No, really.  
  
He'd made a serious decision last night. Several in fact. First, and foremost, the whole _feelings for someone who could never reciprocate_ thing was wearing thin fast. That infuriating enforcer-slash-man-child addiction needed to go. Ichigo had to get his head out of the clouds and back into the game. That was as given. Allowing Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez to get under his skin as easily as he could... considering what was really at stake here, Grimmjow shouldn't even rate.  
  
Never mind that. This “crushing” thing wasn't even like him. Ichigo didn't get all wobbly over people. They usually came to him, or perhaps, they were friends first and, like with Rukia, his first, it just seemed natural to let something happen. But it wasn't even Ichigo who made the first move. Not that he could recall.  
  
No. Ichigo wasn't soft. He'd grown up tough enough to handle whatever Grimmjow, or his own libido, could dish out. He'd always been able to take club life; the teasing, the pranks, the insults. He'd usually just mouth off right back, or threaten theatrical physical harm when he was getting annoyed, and real harm when the guys didn't take the hint. It all worked fine for him most of the time.  
  
Grimmjow, though...  
  
Grimmjow made him sweat.  
  
Like now. Ichigo was still processing the moment as they walked in fifty shades of disgruntled silence towards the outside entrance to the underground parking structure of his apartment building. Ichigo couldn't decide if it was Grimmjow he was mad at, or himself. He was stronger than this. He should be at least somewhat able to shrug off Grimmjow's uninhibited personality. He was no different from anyone else Ichigo knew when it was laid out in black and white in his mind. Shinji, Shiro, Renji, Ikkaku, almost the entire team were masters of ribbing, cheap shots, endless toilet humor, and even real humor in their own inglorious way.  
  
But every word... hell, every movement and every look that the blue haired man produced, it all had ten times the staying power with Ichigo. Any memories of Grimmjow that he had lately, like him tonguing his beer bottle... they seemed to jump to life, vividly.  
  
And after last night's sexting fiasco, Ichigo was hoping he'd seen about as much of Grimmjow's sexual free spirit as he ever would. Otherwise he was probably going to die from some sort of angry aneurism.  
  
He was hoping the blue-eyed, blue-haired, silver-tongued pest would tone it down and control himself today. But who was he kidding. Once again, Grimmjow had just popped right down from out of the fires of some other planet and thrown Ichigo's brain stem into a mini tailspin. Or one step closer to a much predicted stroke.  
  
It made him want to rid himself of this _affliction_ all the more. Carve out the part of his brain that had so obviously gone rotten and decayed, sitting inside his head, useless and weighty.  
  
Because he was starting to imagine things. He had to be.  
  
The physical contact was one thing. But the look... the moment. The thing Grimmjow had just done. What _was_ that?  
  
For the past minute, in every cold, calming breath and in every strangled silence that writhed uncomfortably between them, he fought to excuse the other man's odd protective gesture. And that slow, almost intrusive scrutiny that burned behind blue eyes.  
  
Hell, forget concern. Forget protective. Ichigo had almost felt like he was about to be eaten alive. He'd felt that way before around the bluenet. But never like this. This was different from those other times. More intense. More surreal. Because... they hadn't been in the middle of a ridiculous argument. He hadn't been pinned against the locker room wall, or pressed against the ice.  
  
This time, the veils of anger weren't an excuse.  
  
And he found himself repeating these words in his head.  
  
 _It was nothing. Because it had to be nothing.  
  
_ And that _nothing_ had happened just minutes ago.  
  
 **X X X**  
  
“Yo, Kurosaki. For such a pretty boy, you took that stick to the face like a _boss_.”  
  
The thin January air curled like cold steel around their breath on this Canadian-est of days. The storm had dragged a cold snap in its wake. A large man, his appearance smooth and controlled, an unlikely contrast to his feral and often savage nature, moved toward a deceptively leaner, but equally tempered and eruptive male as the two took stock of each other for the first time in what felt like weeks.  
  
In reality, it had been little more than a day and a half.  
  
“Pretty boy” raised an irritated eyebrow before the flesh between his rich brown eyes rumpled into the deeper version of his trademark scowl. He choked on a nameless sound and took in cold air as he opened his mouth, at first intent on coming up with something as deeply scathing as “pretty boy”. Something Grimmjow could suck on.  
  
But last night's texting debacle was on the shortlist in his mind. And regardless of Grimmjow's stupid taunting, then, and now, Ichigo was still set on actually having a surprise lined up for him. One he knew would benefit them both.  
  
But first... Grimmjow was gonna _hear_ about it.  
  
“Hey, yourself, shithead. After what you pulled last night, I owe you the same. You...” He stopped mid sentence, as Grimmjow closed in on him.  
  
“Yeah?” Grimmjow's voice was off. Breathy. He was looking weirdly at Ichigo. Azure eyes darting about, over his face, down his body, and back again. “What'd I do?” Not there. Not listening. Not bothered at all.  
  
Ichigo felt his temper peak at that.  
  
“Your stupid texts.” Grimmjow met his eyes for a brief moment before his attention was gone again.  
  
“What about'em?”  
  
“The shit you caused me?” Ichigo grumbled. “You...” Serious blue eyes found him again, curiosity in his low voice. And Ichigo found himself looking up and leaning back.  
  
“What shit was that? You show'ed 'em around?”  
  
“No!?” Ichigo felt himself heating up, realizing too late that he had no real grudge to bear. It wasn't Grimmjow's really fault that anyone saw those texts. “I didn't. Not on purpose... Shinji... He...” He waved his hand by his head. “...over my shoulder. But it was your fault! Writing shit like that. You know the kind of...”  
  
And that was as far as he got, because before he could form another coherent word, control of his mouth had disappeared.  
  
 _Disappeared?_  
  
It had been stolen from him. His chin had been grabbed. Raised. And his head was being turned this way then that, by a large, rough, warm, hand.   
And every thought in Ichigo's mind had instantly shattered, his temper blown away, his mind all but brought to its knees. His body tensed, his instincts instantly growling at him in warning that this was far _beyond_ his comfort zone, even more so, because, in its boldness, its naked insistence, it was so very much like the touches his body had so recently sought. At night. When he slept. And when he didn't.  
  
“.. Oy...?” **  
**  
For all his internal hysteria, Ichigo's confusion was reduced to that one brilliantly sputtered protest. Because Grimmjow, for all _his_ casual brushes, touches, and punches **,** had never, _ever_ , touched him like _that_.  
  
And that put an immediate fault-line crack his new, unshakeable foundation.  
  
And _that_ pissed him off.   
  
**X X X**

Ichigo felt his heart jump into his stomach as Grimmjow's grip shifted.  
  
No. His _thumb_ shifted.  
  
No. His thumb _slid_.  
  
And the need to get out of that thought scattering grip intensified, almost overwhelming.  
  
But to further his alarm, Ichigo's body stayed right where it was, like a kitten held by it's scruff, as Grimmjow's oceanic eyes studied him from mere inches away, dragging up from his split lip to his nose, then perusing the darkened skin beneath his eyes with interest. Ichigo's brain scrambled for reason.  
  
An _overly_ concerned friend surveying the damage.  
  
Or a landlord surveying his property.  
  
It could have been his imagination, but it seemed like Grimmjow was becoming more touchy feely with every outing they had. Maybe Ichigo was over-thinking things, as he had a tendency to do with a certain blue-haired tank. But this time he hadn't even so much as asked Ichigo's permission before he'd started manhandling his face like he owned it.  
  
Ichigo watched, wide eyed and in bewilderment, as Grimmjow's eyes fell back to the small split, a lump forming in his throat as the enforcer's thumb ghosted over the skin to lightly probe; a hint of a touch that he didn't know Grimmjow was capable of. And he felt his lips part in response.  
  
The pad of Grimmjow's thumb was wide and rough.  
  
 **X X X**  
  
The skin of Ichigo's lip was warm and soft.  
  
He only wanted to see what damage Ichigo had done to himself last night. And before he knew what had possessed him, he'd reached out and taken Ichigo's chin in his hand. It was nothing, really. They were a physical bunch, and close contact with another guy on the team was as normal as taking a piss, nothing at all, but....  
  
As soon he felt that hot skin burning under his fingertips, sinking into his palm, he felt something about himself letting go. Maybe it started before that. He wasn't sure. But Grimmjow's eyes slit in concentration, and almost like an afterthought, he felt himself slipping somewhere...   
  
...until he felt the vibration run through his fingers... when those lips moved.  
  
Distantly, he heard a low voice. And he blinked slowly as if waking from a fog dream.  
  
It sounded vaguely annoyed. That was never a good sign.  
  
“You know, some people just ask....”  
  
The world suddenly got brighter, the late-morning sun breaking through the clouds above, trying in vain to cast its heat into the winter air. Time that had slowed to a crawl shifted into forward again, a burst of crisp, city sounds breaching the bubble of silence they had somehow fallen into.  
  
Then his eyes slid up and.... the look on Ichigo's face... stunned....   
  
Grimmjow pulled back. He'd crossed a line. One he hadn't even been aware he was stepping up to.  
  
He grunted and ploughed his hand through his hair, scowling for a moment before he pulled up an enormous grin.  
  
He didn't know what to say to Ichigo when he saw him, so he'd just let his mouth do the talking. He knew a pile of obnoxious horseshit had spilled out, but who cared. That was him. And who was he to ruin other people's expectations of him.  
  
He was aware now that he somehow gotten himself far too close for Ichigo's comfort. And aware to late that he'd dangerously run his finger across the tender spot of his lip, unable to fight his curiosity and the rising urge to touch and explore.  
  
But it was more than that.  
  
The shape of them. The rise, the color, the way they moved when he spoke. It just all seemed so fucking... perfect. Like Grimmjow's _own_ weren't good enough. Like Grimmjow wanted to step outside of himself and have something as perfect as that to be. But Ichigo's voice had shattered those thoughts before they could fully form, and Grimmjow gratefully slid back into feeling like himself again. Or a close approximation of it.  
  
Number 15 hadn't returned to the game last night, and Grimmjow had found his thoughts constantly roaming back to Ichigo as he cleaned up his apartment and put the night's empties into the small recycle bin he kept in the pantry.  
  
He knew the oranget was basically fine when Ichigo called him that morning, but seeing him... it was...  
  
His hands were just on him before he even realized they were on the move. Checking him out. Making sure.  
  
Grimmjow had to mentally backtrack to bring his focus back onto the two black eyes Ichigo was sporting. He hadn't tried to cover them up with make-up like he had in the past. That was new. They weren't that dark anyway. The oranget had come away without a broken nose in the end. And it just looked like he'd missed a night or two of sleep. Or maybe ten.  
  
All things considered though, he looked pretty damn good.  
  
As if he hadn't just make them both uncomfortable, Grimmjow reached out again to tousle the bramble patch of orange hair, then slung an arm behind Ichigo's neck and across his shoulders, and gave him a little sideways shake.  
  
“Hah. You finally wearin' your war wounds like a man, Kurosaki? It's a good look on you.” He grinned, knowing his abrasive compliment would incite some sort of reaction from the often fiery oranget. It always did.  
  
Ichigo winced, grimacing as well when Grimmjow scuffed his hair and slung a heavy arm around his shoulders, practically dragging him into a walk. They weren't going running today. Ichigo had declared a day off. Besides, he knew Grimmjow would have worked out already. He was aware of his habits, and he knew the man was anal about keeping himself up to par, and then some.  
  
Instead, he had some stuff to drop off at the local animal shelter, worn blankets from his dad's clinic, things of that nature. Grimmjow had, almost too agreeably, been all-in on Ichigo's morning plans. He'd said he had a few old towels to add to the donation pile, even though the ones in his hand looked suspiciously brand new.  
  
Ichigo scowled back at him. Everything from his own general discomfort, to Grimmjow's many faces; it was all throwing him off his determined stride and into a willful state of petulance he couldn't seem to reel back in.  
  
“What's that supposed to mean?” he shot back. “You think I look good beaten up?”  
  
“Well, yeah.” Grimmjow seemed slightly confused, his response almost a question.  
  
“Then you've got some serious problems,” Ichigo grumbled. Grimmjow's eyes slitted, that deep crease that usually lived there once again finding its home between them.  
  
“Che. Don't get yer wings up,” he scoffed, dropping into slang quickly as his mood turned and his hackles rose. “I'm sayin' if you get hurt, you shouldn't feel like ya need to hide it by paintin' yer face. They're yer war wounds. You should be fuckin' proud of it!”  
  
“I'm proud of play-ing,” Ichigo admonished, making a special point of E-nunciating his words, “not of showing off my,” he made air quotes with his fingers, “war wounds.”  
  
“Why the fuck not? I'm proud 'a _mine_!”  
  
“Keh. Well, _I_ don't need sympathy or attention like _that_ to validate myself.”  
  
Grimmjow blinked. Ten seconds in and the kid was punching holes in his reasoning, and being an obnoxious pompous asshole, anything just to be goddamn difficult. Plus, in the middle of all that pompousness, he was still making _sense_... kinda... and Grimmjow wasn't gonna _stand_ for it.  
  
“What the fuck's this _validating_ shit? You get hurt and bruised and it's there cuz it's there. Quit tryin'a sound like you know everythin'. Yer a hockey player. Not a fucking psychologist.”  
  
“Oh, well, sorry if I don't have the _dumb_ hockey player part down pat. Guess you _win_ that one.” The air around them turned colder under Grimmjow's slow burn of an ice blue glare, if that were possible.  
  
As they walked in angry silence for several long paces across the parking lot, Ichigo risked a sideways glance over and annoyingly up at the man beside him. If he hadn't been so angry right now, he might have smirked. Grimmjow was prowling along to his right with the heavy steps of a fat angry panther, and with his teeth clenched and jawline ticking. Ichigo nearly startled when the fat panther suddenly broke the silence.  
  
“Yer a difficult motherfucker, you know that? Can't you just take a fuckin' compliment?”  
  
Like two bears with the same sore tail, they stomped their way down the sidewalk that led to the underground parking where Ichigo's piece of shit car lay in wait. For his part, Grimmjow was wondering furiously why he'd been so eager to see him again, and then, oddly, why he'd agreed to let Ichigo have the wheel today in the first place.  
  
“Yeah. I can,” Ichigo droned back. “When I _get_ one.” Grimmjow wanted to jam his hands deep into his coat pockets, keeping stretched white knuckles safely out of reach of his infuriating partner. **  
**  
Didn't keep his mouth from jumping back into the fray though.  
  
“Che. If you _really_ want a broken nose, I can _fuckin_ ' help you with that,” he warned. He grunted in annoyance when Ichigo had the balls to snort back, just walking along like a prick beside him.  
  
“You're compliments are as shit as your charity.”  
  
“Oy. I got yer fuckin' charity right here, asshole.” He lifted the garbage bag full of towels that hung in his left hand, and the few in his right, and shook it all into Ichigo's general space. “So, don't be tryin'a call me out when yer acting like yer full'a shit.”  
  
“I'm not full of anything. You're the one passing off jabs as compliments with your fucked up logic.”  
  
They kept it up. The back and forth. Neither of them willing to admit to themselves that they preferred it this way. That they wanted the discord to release their stress, that they needed it to black out the moment that had happened between them.  
  
“Fuck you, Kurosaki.”  
  
“Keh. Fuck you too. You know what I think?”  
  
“'Cuz' I care.....”  
  
“You're just bitchy because you still aren't cleared to practice.” Grimmjow made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. _Fuck_. _What_ was Ichigo's _problem_? Grimmjow's _head_ was spinning. If he was being bitchy it was Ichigo's doing. End of story.  
  
“Shut yer face. I'm not the one who's being bitchy.” Ichigo stepped ahead of the enforcer, knowing he was doing a terrible job of turning tables on him, and muttering almost to himself as he dragged opened the heavy door to the parking garage, growling.  
  
“...sorry I asked you...”  
  
“Che. So, what? I drag my Goddamn ass out here in the bullshit cold so you can pms all over me? Is that the big surprise?” Ichigo's jaw clenched at that.  
  
“The big surprise will be if you ever get your lazy ass back on the ice again.”   
  
“Eat me.” Grimmjow grunted following him inside, out of the sunlight, and drawing up beside him. “And I _am_ cleared. Tomorrow or the day after... _for sure_.”  
  
“Really?” Ichigo looked up, a spark of interest wiping away some of the scowl from his expression. “Coach didn't say anything.”  
  
The bluenet gave a small shrug as they walked past rows of parked cars in the dark static space of the concrete underground.  
  
“I just found out this morning. And it's not that big a deal. S'just practice.” It came off more gruff and petulant than casual, and Ichigo rolled his eyes as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his car keys.  
  
 _Just_ nothing. That was big news. He wondered why Grimmjow hadn't just started with that. Oh right. Because Ichigo couldn’t keep his shit together and had started them arguing to cover his discomfort.  
  
He lifted the key fob and hit the button, and his car chirped back at them, the sound echoing off the cement walls of the structure around them, confusing the senses. Grimmjow, though, turned his head towards the sound. But his expression quickly became annoyed, like he was thoroughly stuck on a crossword puzzle.  
  
“Where's your jalopy?” he frowned. Ichigo felt his eye twitch, but the typical slight against his car was forgotten in the next instant, and he nodded towards the space ahead, feeling a small upwards pull on the side of his sore lip.  
  
“You're standing in front of it.”  
  
Grimmjow seemed to take a moment to process where he was supposed to be looking. Ichigo pressed another button, and an engine fired up. Blue eyes widened, first in surprise, then amazement. Not that the car in front of him was the most expensive thing on the road. But it was admittedly as nice as his own. Better maybe. Except that, this one apparently belonged to Kurosaki.  
  
“Fuck outta here!” he barked, eyes lighting up and one long arm shooting out, fingers driving like a bloom of talons right into the bones of Ichigo's shoulder. He stifled a yelp, the grip becoming almost too painful to ignore in that split second before they were thankfully retracted.  
  
Grimmjow bounced once before his hand was gone and he'd turned his full attention into molesting the sparkling chassis of Ichigo's new car. The enforcer prowled up to the car, the very same finger tips running in the lightest caress along the hood. In fact, it was possible he wasn't actually touching the surface as long fingers teased their way up the side of the windshield with exceptional care. Certainly more than he'd spared Ichigo. He shook his head, a soft smirk forming.  
  
His manic haired partner was grinning like he'd had a personal stake in Ichigo's newest purchase.  
  
Ichigo considered Grimmjow with a subtle tilt of his head. Well, he did, didn't he. It was partly his badgering that had moved Ichigo to spend some money on himself for a change.  
  
“You finally came around and decided to move up.” Grimmjow's voice hit the concrete walls and surrounded him, attention finally leaving the gleaming surface of the car, sly grin directed at Ichigo. He looked really good when he smiled.  
  
“Just shut up and get in.” It was yet another backhanded compliment. But the tone of it was one of such deep approval that it nearly had Ichigo's ego flat on its back, legs twitching, and blissed out on the floor. But that was for him to know.  
  
He gave Grimmjow a pointed glare and derisive snort as he walked over to the driver's side door of his new “ride” as Grimmjow would call it, and opened the door.  
  
But, yeah. He _had_ come around. About fifteen seconds after he'd gotten his faculties back. After getting his face smashed in. Less than twenty four hours ago.  
  
His nose and mouth had been doing a perfectly synchronized angry throbbing thing, and the blood was still leaking out of his face, and he was already thinking about it. Why shouldn't he enjoy some of the benefits that came along with all the hard work he'd put in? Why the hell should he suck it up and carry on like he had been? Just once, he wanted to put himself first, have something nice all to himself. Something he wanted.  
  
Something he wanted that he could actually have.  
  
Yes. He had dragons to slay. And his almost crippling need to give all he could to take care of his family, like he didn't deserve to enjoy it himself, was definitely on that list. Even the deepest wounds could be healed over in time. Scars could fade, but their marks, like still waters, always ran deep.  
  
The moment Ichigo had disembarked from the plane this morning, he'd nearly scrambled home to unpack, then headed right back out to go shopping for a new car. It was Grimmjow's doing. That sexy asshole's nettling about his youth had annoyed him, twisting like a corkscrew into his deeper subconscious, then rearing up as sharp as a slap to the face as soon as he'd gotten smacked in it.  
  
Ichigo pulled open the driver's side door and sank into softened leather, while Grimmjow dragged the door open, growling as he settled himself into his heated seat. **  
  
**Funny thing about cars. The sound of a powerful engine going, always got the average guy's engine going. Grimmjow was no different.  
  
“Shit, that's a beast.” He growled in rapture. And a little envy. This ride had a little more horsepower than his own.  
  
Ichigo noticed the sound of approval, and gave the powerful engine a kiss of gas, carefully as he could, and pulled out of the parking space. It only took a moment before he rolled his eyes, sighing with growing regret and discomfort. He hadn't anticipated the extend of the other man's love for expensive machinery. The guttural pop and rumble of the engine was like some sort of aphrodisiac to the enforcer.  
  
“Holy fuck, I just soiled my panties.” Ichigo made a face.  
  
“That's.... gross...”  
  
“I mean, I _really_ got a wetty going on over here.”  
  
“And... now I have to return the car.”  
 **  
** **X X X**  
  
After wading through twenty very technical minutes of mandatory new car talk, Grimmjow firing question upon question at Ichigo until he directed him to “the fucking manual” that was in the glove compartment, the atmosphere mellowed and thoughts turned to idle conversation.  
  
About the cold. And the car....   
  
“Heated seat's are the best, eh?”  
  
“Yeah, pretty sweet.”  
  
“My old car, she didn't have that. And ya fucking miss it on a day like t'day. Get in yer car, and the seat's like a fucking park bench.”  
  
Ichigo chuckled. He'd never thought of it like that, but that was true. Ichigo looked over when Grimmjow didn't say anything else for a full ten seconds, worried that he might be into or up to something Ichigo wouldn't want to know about.  
  
He was casually flipping through Ichigo's pack of CD's, ones he'd had for years, but hadn't had the luxury of listening to for a few months in his old beater with it's broken CD player.  
  
Ichigo let the enforcer occupy himself for a few moments, enjoying just being. He found himself surprisingly relaxed as he maneuvered his new ride through the streets of Karakura.  
  
Relaxed, bruised, and content. He was an NHL hockey star, and he actually felt like one. Not that he hadn't felt spoiled before on endless trips, dinners and invitations to bars and parties. By comparison, this was simple, but it was on his own terms. Something that he'd dropped real money for. And it was all his.  
  
And it was nice to have a car that included a player that actually worked again. He was just lucky the car he wanted still came with the option. Technology moved so fast. Ichigo had too many old CD's loaded with his favorite music, and not much inclination to load it all into newer formats. Maybe he got it from his old man, who still listened to vinyl when he was putting his feet up in the den at home on his time off.  
  
“What's this one?” A low rumble came from the passenger side, setting Ichigo's heart at a loose gallop for a moment. “It just says mixed.”  
  
Ichigo shrugged, trying to keep his attention on the turn he was making. At least half a dozen of them said mixed.  
  
“Not sure. They're old.”  
  
“I can tell. You got eight tracks around here too?”  
  
“Says the guy with the eighties hair style.”  
  
“Shut it. It's early nineties.”  
  
Grimmjow popped the CD in and turned up the volume, obviously confident in Ichigo's musical tastes. In a few seconds _Somewhere Down A Crazy River_ by Robbie Robertson began to ooze through the speakers, the twelve inch subwoofer in the trunk bathing them in the song's deep smooth bass.  
  
Ichigo flinched.  
  
Shit. That one didn't say mixed. It said, mixed-X. It was a compilation of songs he found... well... kind of hot... maybe even – ughn... romantic - if he really had to pick a word for it. It was the last thing he wanted to listen to with Grimmjow.  
  
Ichigo cringed while Grimmjow sat there, still flipping through the CD case, deceptively silent as they accelerated up a ramp and merged onto the highway. He probably thought the song was shit and was just figuring out the most annoying way to voice his opinion. Ichigo just wished he get on with it.  
  
He pulled into the fast lane, hoping to get to their destination a little bit sooner and end this new form of torture. He didn't need to look over to know Grimmjow's eyes were on him now. He could feel it.  
  
“Hn. You got quite a range in taste here.”  
  
“Uhuh. I have some newer stuff if you wanna change it...” His voice had a snap to it.  
  
The enforcer answered by leaning toward Ichigo and cutting him off.  
  
 _“Hn, Yeah, I can see it now. The distant red neon shhhivered in the heat. I was feeling like a stranger in a straange land. You know, where people play games with the night. God... it was too hot to sleep.”_ Grimmjow rumbled at him like a rainstorm, grin as pure as Satan's. And Ichigo stiffened.  
  
Oh, good. He knew the lyrics.  
  
“Seriously...”, he warned. “I have newer stuff...”  
  
“Shhh. I like this song.” Ichigo ground his molars together.  
  
“I don't care.”  
  
“Shut it.” Grimmjow waved him silent, “Focus on the road,” a long pompous finger waggling at the road ahead. “Gonna be some disappointed puppies if we don't get this shit to the pound.”  
  
Ichigo's deep breath came out slow and long while he stifled his next thoughts.  
  
He stole a few quick glances at his passenger as he drove in stiff silence (except for the damn music) for a very long minute, Grimmjow thankfully keeping his big trap shut, even though he'd settled lazily into his seat like a content cat on a heating vent. It was like he was getting into the music, letting himself drift and...  
  
 _“Wait.”  
_  
“What?” Ichigo responded to the command. And then realized it wasn't one...  
  
Oh shit. Ichigo's jaw ticked and his eyes left the road for a moment to narrow in on the enforcer who had suddenly sat up, and who had... dear God... shifted closer to his shoulder and... who was nearly serenading him now? Well, at least he wasn't actually singing. But still....  
  
 _“Did you hear that?...”_  
  
“Please don't...” Ichigo begged tiredly, irritation flaring further when he'd tried not to whine but was sure he'd failed.  
  
 _“Awww, this is sure stirring up some ghosts for me. She said there's one thing you gotta learn... is not to be afraid of it.”_ Ichigo eased the car onto the exit ramp he'd been watching for.  
  
“I swear I'll drop you off right here.”  
  
 _“I said, no, I like it. I like it. It's good. She said, you like it now... but you'll learn to love it later.”  
  
_ Grimmjow's natural bass dropped like it was lead weighted into a rough feral growl, rolling like thunder along with the music right down Ichigo's back. And he felt his dick give a very embarrassing pulse.   
  
Fu. King. Ass. Hole.  
  
Brown eyes burned and he took one hand off the wheel long enough to give the haunting creature beside him a solid strike in the arm, enough packed into it to to shove the prick away.

 **X X X** **  
**  
Grimmjow swallowed back a real grunt of pain.  
  
Somewhere in between shifting gears and checking his mirror and changing lanes, Ichigo's bony little elbow had whipped out and drilled into Grimmjow's shoulder like he was breaking cement. He didn't pull his punches. The pain was bright and sharp, but it was funny. With Ichigo on his side now, Grimmjow found he respected that about him even more.  
  
Grimmjow feigned injury as he was driven off of his prey with a very effective push. Hell, Ichigo had practically drilled a hole in his shoulder. He knew the little prick had power, but sometimes he forgot just how much stink he could pack into a hit. He could ignore the fact that the pain he felt in his shoulder gave him a strange sense of excitement. But he couldn't help but chuckle at the twist of discomfort on Ichigo's face and those reddened cheeks. And the eyes he gave Grimmjow, they were almost enough to rip a person to shreds. It gave him a pleasant shiver, but still. It was just a bit of fun. The usual. But his innocence, like something new and untainted, untouched even... it just clawed at Grimmjow's playful side.  
  
And those lyrics. How could he not play with that? He knew that song. He'd heard it many times growing up. Though he'd been through phases of leaning toward heavier music, Grimmjow had an appreciation of most types of music. He sometimes used it to get into a mood himself... or, more often, to get out of one.  
  
Some guy somewhere once said that music soothes the savage beast, or something like that. Well, they were right, unless you were in a car with Kurosaki.  
  
“So, I guess the X means this is yer... “ _gettin' busy_ ” music.”  
  
Ichigo's eyes widened, the prickle of heat singeing his cheeks from the indisputable wrongness of Grimmjow hitting so close to home and _knowing it_.  
  
The enforcer smirked when he detected a poorly suppressed growl. Ichigo was for shit when it came to keeping _those_ kinds of secrets. He leaned his head back into the headrest and just watched Ichigo.  
  
“No, you shithead,” he snapped. “It's just relaxing.” The enforcer raised an eyebrow and simpered.  
  
“HnHn. I bet.” Ichigo made a strangled retching noise, trench of a scowl visible from the side.  
  
“Only _you_ would think like that. You're a deviant, you know that, right?” Grimmjow hummed back low in agreement.  
  
“Yup. And I'm gonna borrow this.” He wouldn't mind browsing through it, see what made Ichigo tick on the inside.  
  
“Fuck you,” Ichigo hissed back, cringing away from his passenger. Grimmjow had creeped closer again. Like before, he could feel it. He didn't have to look. But sadly, he did anyway.  
  
“Somethin' like that.” Ichigo's eyes snapped back to the road. He wrinkled his nose and gave up with a grumble.  
  
“Gross. Keep it, then.”  
  
The enforcer grinned and chuckled quietly.  
  
Ichigo shifted gears and slowed at a set of lights before making his turn.  
  
No, it wasn't gross. And the shudder wasn't revulsion. Not if it was Grimmjow dealing out pleasure to Grimmjow. But if he were to use it on say, a date... well then Ichigo would never be able to listen to that song again. Ever.  
  
But what was he thinking about that for? Just because Grimmjow was a persistent pig, didn't mean Ichigo had to take the bait every time. They were here because they were going on some charitable errands first. They had blankets for the city animal shelter, and then Ichigo had two boxes of food in the trunk for the local food bank. Call it his way of balancing out his karma.  
  
And then Ichigo had planned a small surprise for his recovering teammate, something the enforcer would both love and hate.  
  
He smirked. Call _that_ , his late Christmas gift to Grimmjow.

 **X X X  
  
** Thankfully, Ichigo's music was quickly retired, and something less irritating was slid into the CD player.  
  
Apparently, Grimmjow had seen fit to change out the offending CD before Ichigo blew a circuit and threw him out of the car. He had sense when he needed to. But it didn't escape Ichigo's attention that “mixed-X” was popped into the passenger door's side panel. For later. The bastard was keeping good on his word, and taking his CD. And that was just weird, because Ichigo couldn't figure out why in hell Grimmjow would actually want to listen to anything that Ichigo found erotic.  
  
They pulled out of the parking lot and headed to their next destination. The food bank. It was a quick and uneventful stop. Grimmjow tagged beside him as Ichigo carried a box full of dried and canned food, the enforcer lugging the heavier one. They stopped just long enough to give a few autographs once they were recognized, which was pretty much after Ichigo had one foot in the door. Then they headed over to the animal shelter, just a few city blocks away, where they'd dropped off blankets and towels.  
  
It was a charitably themed day. It was Ichigo's idea. He was clearing house, cleansing karma after his big purchase, and adding a few items for the less fortunate while he was at it. He'd given Grimmjow the head's up on that part of their day, but Grimmjow didn't seem bothered by what, for him, must seem like mundane tasks. He didn't attend many of their hockey club's charitable events if he wasn't obligated to.  
  
He did his part, but otherwise he seemed to prefer to do his own thing. Nothing like swimming with sharks, jet skiing or ill-conceived hang gliding.  
  
But today, at least, the enforcer seemed more than content to do whatever Ichigo suggested. In fact, he was all for getting into the swing of things and helping out as well. Whether it was to avoid being outdone by Ichigo, or just an aberration from the depth-less kindness of his heart, who knew. Ichigo would have said the former, but if he hadn't known better, he might have had the feeling Grimmjow was half trying to... impress him. And that was just crazy on the front of it.  
  
Karmas cleansed, and people and animals helped, they were on the road again when Ichigo decided it was time to let Grimmjow in on the rest of their plans.  
  
“I was thinking about things the other day,” he started.  
  
“Things need to be thought about sometimes.” Grimmjow drawled in lazy agreement, cutting in without looking over. He was flipping through a car magazine he'd found in the door. Ichigo made a quiet sound of mental strain, and Grimmjow glanced up before returning to the page he'd found. “Any specific things?”   
  
“Yes.” Grimmjow still didn't look up entirely. Another page turned.  
  
“Well, enlighten me, Kurosaki.”  
  
“Okay. Well, we've been getting along pretty well off-ice... right?”  
  
There was silence. Even the sound of paper flipping had stopped. Every ounce of Grimmjow's attention was now on whatever it was Ichigo was going to say. It sounded to him like they were about to have “the talk”, the one about them finding a way to get along on the ice once Grimmjow got there, something Grimmjow had been wanting to bring up all mroning. But honestly, after giving it some thought, he still hadn't been sure how to go about it, or even what he hoped to accomplish.  
  
“I mean... no bloodshed,” Ichigo corrected seriously.  
  
Broken from his thoughts and slightly amused, Grimmjow gave Ichigo a thoughtful look. After a moment he conceded with a quiet grunt. He wanted to talk to Ichigo about their upcoming ice time, but it seemed that Ichigo may have beaten him to the punch. Well then, let Ichigo open that can of worms if he wanted to. It was no sweat off Grimmjow's back.  
  
“Based on that logic,” he shrugged, “we're fucking great.”  
  
“Right. Okay. Good,” Ichigo said determinedly. Grimmjow raised an eyebrow out of a growing curiosity and a sudden vague sense of mistrust.  
  
“I think you're skipping, there, Kurosaki.”  
  
“Oh. Right. Well, uh... I was thinking... “ Why was this suddenly so hard? “...of introducing you to someone.”  
  
Grimmjow squinted for a split second before a thought popped in. Something instantly squirmed deep in his stomach and without hesitation, he turned and stomped Ichigo's request right through the floor of the car and into the pavement beneath them. All lead boots. Killing the idea dead in its tracks.  
  
“Fucking hellfire, Kurosaki. No.” Ichigo took his eyes off the road long enough to shoot his passenger a confused frown.  
  
“What?”  
  
“No way.”  
  
“You didn't even....”  
  
“Yer family sounds nuts. And I got enough on my plate.”  
  
Grimmjow didn't do other people's family's very well. Especially not Kurosaki Ichigo's. Not after everything his family obviously knew about the shit they'd gotten into on the ice. Right or not, they for sure thought Grimmjow was a gigantic asshole. Normally he didn't care, but in this instance, he did. And if that wasn't reason enough to avoid them, then not after the things Ichigo had told him about them, especially his old man. To top it off, the whole family might be crazy, but they were tight. And Grimmjow didn't need to be put under a microscope and have every one of his short comings scrutinized by an overprotective Kurosaki clan.  
  
Plus, somehow the very idea felt too weird for words. For some reason, he couldn't imagine himself measuring up. And why that was even a thought in his mind was maddening. He didn't care what people fucking thought of him.  
  
The sudden and fiery panic that had flared up all over his gut was quickly extinguished as Ichigo suddenly clued in and sent him a wide eyed and glaring look that said, _'Are you completely insane?'_  
  
“My family? You thought...?” Ichigo blinked a few times, then popped. “Are you _insane_?!”  
  
He half shouted the question as he shook his head fiercely in denial, the car weaving from one side of their lane to the other as he seemingly tried to rid both himself and Grimmjow of the mental house of horrors that was the enforcer meeting his family. “Don't say shit like that! What is _wrong_ with you?!”  
  
“Well, fuck!?” Grimmjow blurted, still cringing in his seat. “What then?”  
  
“Do you still think I hate you?” Ichigo snapped hotly before he returned to being semi-serious.  
  
“For a second there, yeah,” Grimmjow grumbled, still squirming a little on the inside. Its own distinct, unnatural feeling.  
  
“Look, you're coming back to practice in a day or two, right?” Ichigo huffed back at him. Grimmjow stuffed the magazine into the side panel, bending it.  
  
“That's the plan. Wh-...”  
  
“Then shut your ass up. I'm saying we have an offer to get some real ice time today. Before you come back. If you wanted.”  
  
That got the enforcer's attention off their painful misunderstanding and onto something that made his adrenaline hiccup in excitement, even though Ichigo had returned to grumbling beside him.  
  
“Keh. As if I'd let you anywhere near my...”  
  
Ice time? Grimmjow sat up straighter in his seat, his spine nearly crinkling in pleasure at the thought of hitting the ice again.  
  
But ice time? With Ichigo? Damn. He could get into that, but... right now? With Ichigo? The reason they had been getting along so well lately was because they hadn't let their hockey issues enter into their discussions. And now, when removed from the whole business of playing together, Grimmjow was seeing Ichigo in a new light. He wasn't a threat out here. He was just a guy, and not a bad one at that. He had his pms moments. But who didn't?  
  
“...him we're coming.”  
  
It was odd, how something could be such an exciting prospect but at the same time be so nerve wracking. It might be too soon, but then, time wasn't exactly on their side. Grimmjow would be back at practice in a day or two _anyway_ , and he had every intention of pushing to play in the next game. And then what? They'd be back to square one. Just because they were talking didn't mean they would play any better together than they had before. And based on their day so far, he had to wonder if they'd both end their careers the moment they stepped onto the ice.  
  
“...Grimmjow?”  
  
Hell, the kid was doing enough by helping him keep active. Why did it feel like accepting his offer of ice time would be like succumbing to his charms, and that Grimmjow needed to hang on to that little bit of resistance he had left?  
  
The Karakura city scape flew by as they barreled back along the highway. They were heading back towards Grimmjow's part of town. The bluenet studied the side of the orange-haired man with a grave expression before he straightened again, watching a mix of the dash and the city scape.  
  
When exactly Grimmjow had come to think of Ichigo in terms of being anything near charming was a question unto itself.  
  
“Jaegerjaquez!”  
  
Grimmjow's head snapped up from where he'd been half staring at the dash and worrying the edge of one blunt thumbnail with his teeth as his elbow rested against the window frame. He answered with a dazed grunt.  
  
“Hn? What?”  
  
Ichigo gave him a cursory fish eye. He'd really zoned out there, and for a moment Ichigo thought maybe he'd broken him or something.  
  
“Are you even listening to me?” he snapped. Grimmjow finally looked at him.  
  
“No,” he stated blankly. Ichigo rolled his dark eyes, and then began to repeat himself a little bit slowly, as if Grimmjow were nothing but a small child with a short attention span.  
  
“I was saying... my old coach, Urahara, is at the rink today. He said the ice is free until late this afternoon.” His voice started to return to normal rhythm, his intention not to instigate another fight. “And he's willing to help us train if you're interested. I need to call him and let him know we're coming.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“No. I'm just making it up. Are you up for it or not?!”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, sure, fuck,” Grimmjow raised his palms, appeasing the man who held both their lives in his angry little hands. “Call him.”  
  
He agreed almost without thinking. Not because he wasn't suddenly nervous as shit, but because, instantly, he knew without a doubt that they needed this. Without a team around them, the atmosphere would be different, but if there were going to be problems, let it rain down on them today. In private.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	28. Chapter 28

They thought the arena _seemed_ a bit quiet when they finally arrived, the car - and in it, the latest incarnation of their ongoing argument – coasting in a lazy slide around the corner before finding purchase again and winding into the parking lot under the cold and distant eye of the mid afternoon sun.  
  
But when they rolled to a stop right in front of the main entrance, the two men inside the vehicle came to a lurch in their argument and finally took in their surroundings.  
  
All of about five cars littered the space around the doors. The building was almost a husk.

Grimmjow's grumbling tenor hacked into their momentary peace first – breaching the lull in their jaded back and forth - the enforcer making zero effort to hide the considerable contempt in his voice.

“You _sure_ he said to meet him _here_?” he frowned.  
  
Ichigo studied the building for dark a moment.

“Yesss...” he ground out, though he seemed hardly convinced of it himself.  
  
“It's a fuckin' ghost town,” Grimmjow complained loudly, eyes snapping towards Ichigo and back again to the building, his expression nearly irate looking to anyone who didn't really know him, but as normal a gesture as anything for _him_ as for anyone else asking for polite directions on the street.  
  
Ichigo, for his part, turned sharply with a scathing look of his own, and the enforcer swore he could almost snatch a _taste_ of the irritation grinding through his younger partner's voice.

“We're not even inside yet, and you're starting _already_?”  
  
And as if that didn't just give Grimmjow a case of the giddies, he laughed, the sound of it deeply meaningful – _preyful -_ meant to grate on Ichigo's nerves because... well, why the hell not. Did he ever really need a reason?

“I'm just warmin' up,” he purred. And he smirked with it too, the gesture turning darker than his counterpart obviously cared to witness.  
  
Ichigo eyed him critically for just a moment before he pulled the key from the ignition. Motion harsh; quick and efficient.

“Yeah, well, save that energy for later,” he warned, tone abrasive, pushing his door open before turning away to rise **.** “You'll be needing it.”  
  
Grimmjow practically shivered in response, suddenly on the move, leaning his way like a falling tree; messy and full of old bark, and landing damn near against him in his seat as Ichigo struggled to get out of the car and away.

“Ooooh. Yer scarin' me,” he crooned, his cocky grin following right after the oranget, even as he _tried_ to exit the vehicle quickly and on the last word, and failed.

It was hard to tell who won that round. As if it really mattered. But still, Ichigo couldn't help but smirk slightly and shake his head into the chill winter air as he stepped out of the car and closed the door on _him_.

  
And for at that moment, as brief as it would last, their casual war was balanced.  
  
“Here.”

And a moment later, as nature demanded, it tilted again.

Ichigo stepped around the trunk and lifted the lid. He hauled Grimmjow's gear laden bag out first, then tossed it at the enforcer about as easily as _anyone_ could toss _that_ much weight around.  
  
Grimmjow grunted, not ready at all, his large black gloves all a-fumble with the bag. But he managed to hang onto the heavy bundle of equipment and his balance by a hair, teeth flashing sharp with the effort.  
  
“Yer curbside manner could be improved,” he grunted, his ice blue eyes glinting in the sun, as he shifted the weight of the bag from his arms to his shoulder.

“ _All_ your manners could be improved,” Ichigo drawled, bringing the trunk hatch down and turning away.

Grimmjow opened his mouth, then closed it, eyes darkening as Ichigo walked away. His brows pinched together in a passing frown. He _had_ manners. But... point taken.

“Che.” He stalked forward, boots thumping across the cleared and salted, white-lined concrete of the pedestrian pathway that lead to the entrance. “Well, you just bring out the best in me, see?”

Ichigo's eyes closed in a scowl as he argued back, one deliberate step ahead and reaching for the door.

“Don't even _try_ to put the blame on me.”  
  


“Aww common.” Grimmjow shrugged as he jeered, intent on gaining back lost ground in their current skirmish. “It's like you got these powers, see? And I can't help it if they affect me.”  
  
“Keh. You're affected alright.”  
  


“Way I see it, I'm just a victim here.”

“I accept _no_ responsibility for _anything_ you do...” Ichigo pulled the door open, dark eyes looking pointedly back at the enforcer, “ _EVER_.”

Grimmjow sneered as he let Ichigo have the last word, laughing to himself, the sound of it a quiet rumble in his chest. Ichigo had another point.  
  
Grimmjow grabbed the door frame that Ichigo had left to swing closed on him, again, slowing as he scooped it out of his way and stepped through it, cold and warm air clashing, turbulent around him.  
  
His thoughts seemed to take a sudden turn along with it, forming quickly in his mind, hardening like dark shadows stepping out of thick mist.  
  
Everything in life was your own doing. Your accomplishments. Your fuck-ups. And as tempting as it might be to take credit where it wasn't really due, or even to blame other people for your own shitty situations, in the end, it was _always_ on you. Yeah, _that_ part Grimmjow knew in spades. He sobered as he forced the thoughts and the things that came with it out of his mind again.

Steel and glass swung closed behind him. Shutting out the cold.  
  
He scanned the large, open space ahead of him quickly, polished floors peppered with colored reflections under the gleam of bright lights, high walls covered in team photographs and memorabilia. The usual. His head tilted. Except that Ichigo might be in some of those pictures. Grimmjow wondered briefly if Ichigo would show him, and if he'd changed much, and if he would have that same all-directions hair as a teenager. He looked away, scowling hard as he quickly scratched the notion of asking. He didn't _want_ to sit and flip through Kurosaki's little hockey family photo album. As if.  
  
His eyes fell on the back of the original head of eyesore orange as they began to make their way towards the change rooms. The two men moved through the lobby in silence, gear on their shoulders, Grimmjow following Ichigo's lead. The heavy wet tread of their footsteps squeaked and echoed down the first leg of the long corridors before they began to dry out. The sound of it was welcome against the sudden, almost unnatural quiet.  
  
Quiet enough that Grimmjow almost found himself wishing for a janitor or security guard to appear from around a corner, just so someone would say something.

Lost in thoughts of his own, Ichigo noticed it more. The space was usually full of hustle and bustle, young would-be stars striving to make it to the next level, to get noticed, pushed by their will and their parents. But this year's crop were long gone. The morning's practice had already cleared out, leaving Grimmjow and Ichigo free to do their own thing in the home team's dressing room; the very room in which Ichigo had spent the last four years of his life suiting up and listening to speeches under his old coach's close supervision before he was called up to the Reapers.  
  
Ichigo slowed as he entered the dressing room, ghosts of conversations-past lighting up like pale silhouettes in motion as his eyes traced a path around the room; along wood benches, across the floor. The smell of the place was the same as any; slightly stale sweat left behind from a recent practice, but made thin and inoffensive by the constant flow of air moving through the ducts.  
  
The side of his mouth pulled up without him even being aware. It felt a bit like coming home. Bittersweet. Memories from not so long ago feeling as if they belonged in some other lifetime. But it was only last year when he'd stood on this very floor, suiting up to play the last game he'd ever play with the city's minor league team, the Soul Slayers. They were good. Very good. Many top ranked players had, in fact, been hand picked from this team, and had gone on to successful NHL careers with other teams. Ichigo wasn't the first, or even the best, but...  
  
“You gonna move sometime? Or you want me to pick you up and carry you 'cross the threshold?”  
  
Ichigo flinched as he was jarred from his memories, Grimmjow's gravelly question ending in the same dark purr that far too much of what he said to Ichigo had a tendency to do. Sometimes he could ignore it. And sometimes it was beyond irritating. He turned his head as he made a small growl of annoyance to himself, cringing in reflex as he felt the large body behind him encroach further; so close, he realized with sinking anticipation, the enforcer could have leaned his chin on Ichigo's shoulder, had he wanted to.  
  


“Try it,” Ichigo warned, voice as steady as it could be, “and you'll _wish_ you were back in that hospital bed.” The almost bland threat drew an amused snort from his partner.

Ichigo ignored it, thinking Grimmjow done, and pulled away from the uncomfortable wave of heat that had begun to radiate in a plume against the back of his neck. He took only one step inward before he found himself being steamrolled by the veritable wall of impatience who was now making a point of using his body to help herd Ichigo forward. Like some type of cattle. The idiot was literally shoving him forward.  
  
Ichigo's jaw clenched, dark eyes narrowing. It would be Grimmjow's first big mistake of the day.

He decided _that_ moment was the perfect time to adjust his hockey bag, throwing his elbow out hard as he did to gain momentum. It really was a heavy thing, square cornered and stuffed with all manner of protective gear and guarded metal blades. And as he hefted his arm, the motion carried the bag around his side, one of its stiff corners connecting abruptly with Grimmjow's solar plexus, his open winter jacket offering no protection at all. ****  
  
Ichigo was forced to take a small step to brace himself, the impact jolting him nearly as much as it had Grimmjow. It was like a rock meeting a hard place. A hard place that gave a very strangled grunt of surprise. It had to hurt a little.  
  
“Ow! Fucker!” The enforcer wheezed out a growl, but that was all he got out before Ichigo chuffed back at him.  
  
“Deserved it.” There was a pause as Grimmjow grimaced and rubbed at his wounds.  
  
“Tch. Pay you back later.”  
  
Ichigo smirked. Grimmjow knew he'd earned himself _that_ much. It was all about balance with him. But what was balance when you could have unbalance? And he was bound to find out all about the concept once he met Urahara.

“Heh. Saving _everything_ for later today? Or are you _all_ mouth?”  
  
They both moved deeper into the large room and across the floor, avoiding the insignia emblazoned at its center.

  
“Hn. Keep it up and my _mouth_ is gonna be the _least_ of your worries.”  
  
Hockey players, tradition, and superstition, all came together as a package deal. You never stepped on your team logo. One small misstep had seen many a' players dragged into the coldest of showers by other team members, or their shoes duct taped together, or even their pants slung across the rafters high above center ice.  
  
“Keh. Don't know how I'm gonna sleep at night.”  
  
Whether it was out of respect for the team, or from the threat of bad luck...

  
_“_ Yer _dumb_ ass won't even see me comin',” Grimmjow sneered.  
  


You just didn't do it.

  
“I don't have to _see_ you? Sounds great,” Ichigo drawled back. ****  
  
The two men skirted with automated practice around the large Soul Slayers symbol, one on each side, and claimed a piece of bench to take the weight of their heavy gear. There were twin thumps  
  
“Please,” Grimmjow simpered. “You _know_ you can't hardly take your eyes off me.” He opened his arms wide to show off his much sought after warrior-like physique, anticipating Ichigo's dark and narrowed look. Pleased as punch when he got it. Grimmjow threw him a quick wink from what was clearly and now decidedly not-far-enough down the bench for the oranget.

“No. Idiot.” Ichigo practically bristled, even though it was painfully clear he was _trying_ to be cool about it. “ _You_ can't take your eyes off you.”

Grimmjow tilted his head slightly, intrigued now as much as amused by Ichigo's nearly vehement denial. It had a strange intensity to it, always did. He didn't quite understand why Ichigo got so fucking hot headed about a little ribbing. It was just such a normal thing to do around the team. They were all just a bunch of little boys having fun talking up their dicks. He smirked internally. Nothing but class.  
  
So, what was Ichigo's problem? Could Kensei have gotten to him when they'd met at the bar as well? Toyed with him like he had Grimmjow? That could have put him off. He could be homophobic, but that didn't _seem_ to fit. From what Grimmjow'd picked up from here and there, Ichigo was pretty accepting of people in general. It could just be because they'd gotten into so many fights and a few people had gotten suggestive about it. That reporter from the street was a good example. But Ichigo wasn't stupid. He knew it was all a load of hot air and gossip. But maybe it did bother him. Hockey was a really homophobic domain after all, and Ichigo was just being sensitive about it. That had to be it, otherwise Grimmjow would have to take it _very_ personally. He shucked the idea that Ichigo found Grimmjow personally repulsive and... and what in living fuck was he doing even considering this shit?

He returned to his gear, hastily stashing his curiosity away in a box marked _crap for later_. Because he _did_ want to know how Ichigo ticked, but right now, they were trying to be professional. And they were on the clock after all.  
  
So, instead of saying something provocative like ,“It's true. 'Cuz just look at all this skin. I wouldn't _blame_ you for checkin' me out...”, he released Ichigo from his noose of sexual torment and merely shrugged in agreement.

  
The room had fallen into glaring silence.  
  
At the other end of the bench, Grimmjow's words were pin-balling around inside Ichigo's head as they both unzipped their bags and began to slip out of their street clothes. Shirts first.

Grimmjow wasn't wrong in saying that his body was sought after, in both senses. By men wanting to achieve that level of fitness personified, and by women who wanted to either sleep with him or marry him and have his babies. Either way, he had the body of a gladiator.  
  
Well, Ichigo, for his part, was not going to look at it. He kept his focus on the space in front of him as he pulled each item from his bag and set it out semi-orderly on the bench... changing as quickly as he could being his entire reason for existence in this particular moment.

Stripping and dressing. Efficiently. Alone with Grimmjow.

He shucked off his winter jacket and set it on the hook in front of him before he lifted the hem of his shirt up over his head.  
  
How had he not foreseen this?

He dropped it on the bench in a heap.

It hadn't even occurred to him before hand that they'd be alone like.. _this._ He'd been too wrapped up with the idea of training to actually think it over. But he was here now, and he'd just have to man up and get through it and hope that Grimmjow didn't make more of a thing about it than he already had.

He'd seen what Grimmjow kept under his shirt many times before anyway; irritated that it was even on his mind that any part of him might actually _want_ to see it again. Exponentially _more_ irritated now that Grimmjow had just so neatly _put it there._  
  
Half rifling through his gear in his sudden need to extract his workout shirt and cover himself, Ichigo definitely wasn't interested in chatting while they changed, just wanting to get it over with, with as little emotional carnage as possible. He found the garment and slipped it on. They hadn't changed _alone_ together since their pre-Christmas on-ice altercation. It almost seemed like years ago, but as he laid out his elbow pads, he wondered if the subject might be on Grimmjow's mind too.  
  
Their fight. Not undressing together.  
  
Ichigo shook out a sock. He didn't _really_ care. He'd take this shuffling silence over getting an answer to either question any day. This was stupid, anyway. He had to get focused for their practice. _They_ had to. They had hurdles to overcome. Big ones; Grimmjow's personal hockey issues and their shared on-ice problems. Ichigo was determined that his old coach could provide both of them with at least _some_ insight and strategies today.  
  
Assuming Grimmjow would even take his advice.  
  
For now, silence was good. Heck, it was golden. But his teammate was either completely clueless or hopelessly annoying. Or a lot of both, Ichigo dryly concluded.

“So, this is your old stompin' ground, huh.” It wasn't a question, really. Grimmjow knew where Ichigo came from. Ichigo lifted his head and glanced over, thoughts drying up like water on hot asphalt.

The enforcer had his shirt off. All the way off. Adonis lines dragging Ichigo's eyes helplessly down towards the loosened ties and wrinkled waistband of the sweats that may have well as been falling all way off his angular hips as well.  
  
“Uhuh.” Ichigo wrenched his eyes away from the sight of all that well organized shit and tried to pin his eyeballs to his gear, feeling less than conversational. The smarter part of his mind, that last little wedge that was left that was _not_ _obsessing_ on their mutual growing nudity, was already out on the rink; wondering if it would go well. Somehow, just _knowing_ it wouldn't.  
  
He took a breath, then another, closing his eyes and refocusing on his task. He felt himself calm. Urahara was waiting, and if Ichigo knew him as well as he thought, his coach had a lesson for them both.

“Your old coach, he's some kinda wack job, eh?” Grimmjow tried again. And Ichigo looked up again despite himself, caught off guard by his timing. He was also a little surprised that Grimmjow hadn't mentioned knowing Urahara until now.  
  
“You've met him?” He shouldn't have sounded so surprised if he had. They were in the hockey world after all. And it felt as small as it was large. A family of sorts.

Grimmjow already had his under-armor on, Ichigo glad he'd missed the show. He let his sweats drop to the floor and stepped out of them, reaching for his own under-armor style workout pants that he wore underneath his gear. As it happened, while Grimmjow was distracted.  
  
“Not personally.” Grimmjow pulled his shin guard into place, talking more to his own knee from the looks of him than he was to Ichigo. “Just from around the club and the papers. Guy runs a good team, but word is he's real odd.”

Oh... Ichigo looked back to his gear. It was true. That _was_ the word. Had been for years. It wasn't news to anyone who followed hockey in Karakura.  
  
“You could say he's different.” He answered as he turned and sat, and began to pull on the tight workout pants, standing once his feet were in, then shimmying them up his legs and hopping twice to help slide them over the last tricky bit. “And I couldn't argue.” They were black, with a series of thin white lines wrapping down around the front and curling into his inner thighs. He was glad they were dark. If they weren't, they'd be extremely revealing. “But a month with him changed everything for me. He had a big affect on my career.”  
  
Grimmjow straightened fully to _finally_ work a fitted workout shirt down and over the bulge of large, well developed pecs, blue eyes finding Ichigo when he was done.  
  
“Whad'you mean?” Head ducking back down, Ichigo thumbed along the inside of the elastic waste band, aligning it against his hips, before looking over at Grimmjow, voice serious.  
  
“Before Urahara found me, I never thought I'd _have_ one.”

  
There was a silence before Grimmjow responded, eyes sharpened and a little wary. Almost cautious of Ichigo's feelings. He had a suspicion their relationship was older and more personal that he'd assumed it to be.

  
“So, what? He like a father to you or somethin'?”  
  


“Hmm... more of a... weird uncle,” Ichigo said thoughtfully, lifting a shoulder into a shrug as he did, though he didn't smile. His coach was sometimes... _infuriating_ wasn't a big enough word for it. But privately, Ichigo had a butt-load of respect for the man after everything he'd done for him.  
  
Grimmjow didn't respond, attention fixed on Ichigo for thick a moment.

  
Ichigo didn't notice as he stepped into a set of straps, then shimmied the plastic protective cup they were attached to up over his thighs, giving it an tug to see that it was comfortably in place. He wasn't aware that Grimmjow's own rustling noises had ceased until the bluenet spoke up again.

  
“It sure is a big... place you got here...”  
  
Ichigo's eye twitched at something in the enforcer's voice, at his timing, and at the suggestion that lingered in the silence behind it. And at the fact that he could tell by that very sound that Grimmjow was looking endearingly in his direction. He glanced sideways at his overgrown and underdeveloped teammate through one slit eye.  
  
“Move down the bench. You're too close,” he grumbled.  
  
Grimmjow only grinned harder from his spot, a good ten feet away.  
  
“Well, I mean, holy fuck,” he started up, eyes lit with amusement. “You paint those on?” Ichigo felt his back teeth meet, trying to ignore the question entirely. For the sake of peace. And sanity. Grimmjow's comment was right out of left field, as usual. He was probably uncomfortable with human emotions - Ichigo scowled to himself - and trying to lighten the mood.

“Get lost.” ****  
  
“I am...” he said sweetly through a smarmy grin, eyelashes fluttering away, shameless, “in you.” Ichigo's eyes lit up, but he seemed to run out of gas for just a moment.  
  
“The--- Everybody wears them. You have almost the same pair! Quit being a dick!”  
  
“Yeah, but with yer jock jewelry on, nobody wears 'em quite like you do.”

  
“Yeah well... nobody's a dick about it like you,” he snapped.

  
“See, I knew you were lookin'.”

“Grimmjow... “ he warned.

“Heh. Alright. Alright. Don't have a meltdown. I need you in top shape so I can knock you down and kick your ass across the ice out there.”  
  
Ichigo didn't bite. Well, he nibbled.

  
“I'd like to see you try.”

Ichigo went back to dressing, not waiting around for the delayed but inevitable comeback. But he didn't get the response he was expecting.  
  
“It is actually pretty nice. I mean it's not the Taj Mahal, but it's better than the arena they got over in Hueco Mundo. Shit was startin' to fall apart when I was there.”

“It's new. They tore the old arena down. There's a mall there now, I think.”  
  
“Yeah, I know. I played games against the Slayers in the old one. Before your time,” he grinned. Ichigo shook his head at the age comment. As if Grimmjow was mentally even one day older than Ichigo. It was amazing that they'd missed each other by a single season. He wondered what Grimmjow was like as a teenager. Probably about the same but with a bad complexion. Scratch that. There was no way he'd ever suffered a single pimple on that flawless skin.

Ichigo stopped in the middle of what he was doing, one long, banded hockey sock coming to a stop halfway up his leg and slouching there in apathy. He stared at the enforcer.

“Have you really never been here? Even to check it out?” Grimmjow didn't bother to look back at his teammate, instead continuing to pull out the next piece of equipment, his elbow pads.

“Nope,” he answered lazily. When Grimmjow didn't elaborate, Ichigo's voice lowered in bored annoyance as he sat back down on the bench and finished sliding his hockey socks up over his shin pads, falling further behind the enforcer, who was nearly dressed.  
  
“Haven't you lived here for _ten_ years?” he asked snidely.  
  
“Nine. And I've been a little busy,” Grimmjow drawled as he turned back to adjusting his chest protector. He never like being called out, but it was true. He'd been in Seireitei for nearly ten years already and he had never dropped in on his city's farm team nor their new arena complex. Not once.  
  
“Too busy to even check out your own city's farm team?” Grimmjow looked up, face impassive.

“What do I care about the minors? S'not my business who does what in peon-ville. I only care how they are once they're on my team.” He gave Ichigo a meaningful look, knowing Ichigo wouldn't be able to let it go.  
  
“ _Our_ team. And I didn't mean you should go around mentoring players,” he shot back, adding in a loud mumble, “that's a scary thought.” Grimmjow closed his eyes as he turned away, shoulder rising in dismissal.  
  
“Che. Whatever.”

“I just thought with moving to a new place, you'd get out more...” Ichigo's eyes drooped a little in disinterest, “beyond parties and the bar scene. But you don't ever go to our functions unless it's mandatory.”

It was true. He didn't volunteer to any of the team's annual charity events unless he had to. This team participated in a lot more events than his former team, that was for sure. But he hadn't really gotten around to getting in a charity state of mind. His libido was usually his first priority. Parties, bars, and late one night stands didn't leave a lot of room for humanitarian events outside of practice and game time. They definitely had a more involved team in this city. Grimmjow didn't _mind_ moving to Serieti. Leaving things behind. Reality was, the cities were so close and he'd traveled so often that lifting roots from a neighborhood was nothing. In fact, it never even felt like he'd left home. Because wherever his parents were _was_ home. _Had_ been home.....

“Jeeze, ma, get off my case already?” Grimmjow rumbled without any real heat. “I promise I'll be home before curfew.” Ichigo made a sour face.  
  
“That's not even a reference to anything I'm saying,” he admonished.  
  


Grimmjow ignored him completely, and Ichigo let the silence lag for a moment.  
  


“You just seem like someone who...”, Ichigo continued, shrugging as he glanced over, “ _knows_ places.”

The corner of the enforcer's mouth pulled upwards as he snapped back to life, aiming a smile full of self satisfaction in Ichigo's direction.

“Oh, I _know_ Seireitei,” Grimmjow purred, eyes bright with a demonic glint. Ichigo grimaced as he stepped into his padded hockey pants. That _was_ partly what Ichigo meant, though. His eyes darkened, condemnation bleeding through.  
  
“Dirty bars and rat infested alleyways don't count.”  
  
“Heh. Oh, but they do.” Grimmjow grinned shark-like before he nodded abruptly, sniffing as he did. “And fuck you. It's pent houses and top shelf for this motherfucker.”  
  
He knew his way around to be sure. The city's layout, _and_ its lays.

Ichigo only snorted his half hearted disapproval and went back to dressing.

Grimmjow took the comment with a tinge of discomfort though. The fact that Ichigo was paying attention to him, reading him and making judgments like that on **e,** stirred up an off feeling. Like Grimmjow couldn't hide from him. Like he cared that he was being judged. And that maybe he wasn't as _top shelf_ in Ichigo's eyes as he _damn_ well should be.

His lecherous grin faded to a frown, and he let the room fall back into the semi-silence of fabric sliding against skin and laces tightening like nooses.  
  



	29. Chapter 29

Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez lay in wait.

Not the kind where he lurked within the crowded belly of a large darkened bar - air thick with arousal from inclined and under-dressed women - waiting for someone welcoming and fuckable to catch his eye and indulge his tastes. And not the kind where he was inhumanely hungry, stalking step by silent step through tangled, leafy underbrush with a lowered spine and forward ears, catching the clumsy sounds of an easy meal, ready to kill and devour his unfortunate prey.

No.

He just lay.

In wait.

And wait. And wait. And wait.

With a bored eyebrow arching high, he checked an invisible watch, one stuck somewhere between the safety of the thick, dark padding of his glove and the warm, smooth skin of his wrist. He'd been ready for like an hour. And he was getting tired and too warm an too uncomfortable just standing around in full gear and on hard steel blades.

Could they get it on already?

“You done yet?”

His deep grumbly drawl plagued across the room to prod at its intended target. Less barbarous overall, but not unlike the taunts that flew across the ice during game time to unsettle the opposing team.

His audience of one, though, refused to look his way. Affronted, one azure eye narrowed, its owner seeking the small satisfaction that came with every reaction he got. In some small way, he could say it was almost addictive, like rushing the net and forcing the goalie down onto his knees to defend it.

“Season's gonna be over by the time we get out there.”

Ichigo's jaw ticked like a Swiss watch as he bent forward. The tone of impatience was like nails hammering their way blow by blow into his ears. And the acerbic commentary was just another layer of icing on an already well decorated cake.

The enforcer stood in the doorway, holding its framework aloft with the curve of one well padded shoulder while the palm of his free hand rested on the taped handle of his hockey stick. The other hand, idle and searching for something to do, rose to his ear, fingers on the thick gloves far too wide to enter the thin canal and relieve the imaginary itch that he'd sought to reach. He settled for grinding it against the opening instead.

“I been standing here for twenty minutes.” The indignant complaint was followed by a sniff and another lowered grumble, “...like waiting fer a date that's never ready.”

Ichigo forced his fingers not to clench into the very knots they were working on. Instead, he schooled himself.

“Meanwhile, in the real world...” came his uncaring and somewhat muffled reply, “it's been thirty seconds.”

Otherwise, Ichigo didn't bother to react to the trolling comments, hunched over as he was and giving a firm and final tug on his skate lace. It was locker room talk. Giving each other a hard time. Guy shit.

Undeterred, the enforcer slouched against the frame with an oscar winning petulant sigh and folded his arms as best he could with a hockey stick in his hand.

“Longest thirty seconds of my life.” Ichigo's response was as dry as desert air.

“Bet you've never heard that before.” Grimmjow's throat made a catching sound.

“Che. Longest thirty inches of her life, s'more like.”

Ichigo barely even glanced up, lazy scowl built on indifference, as he began to rise. He stood tall on his skates and smoothed his Reapers jersey into place, half lidded brown eyes finally trailing upwards and landing on his tormentor with open disinterest. Almost as an afterthought.

“At least I didn't put my jersey on backwards,” he said flatly.

He turned and gathered up his stick and helmet, then turned back again, his expression convincing; neutral.

There was silence. And then, Grimmjow's locked and cool azure gaze narrowed a fraction. So little, Ichigo almost missed it.

But then, for all his worldly self confidence and much touted attention to detail... the enforcer.... glanced down.

Ichigo nodded in victory, grinning as he pressed a heavy glove against his helmet, squashing his orange spikes down until they stuck out the sides. The moment of pure innocence and confusion sent a small surge of parity through Ichigo, the flash of disgruntled awareness on Grimmjow's face making him feel even more sure of himself. If fact, he felt downright cocky as he sauntered right up to the enforcer's abased frown - like he'd just been stuck with the worst hand of cards ever - his demeanor tinged with that wariness he almost always carried with him as he watched Ichigo's approach. There were rare times that he didn't, and Ichigo remembered each and every one of them. So few that there'd been.

“Too easy,” he smirked.

Grimmjow shoved him in the shoulder for that one, turning to block the doorway as he did. He'd gotten caught out in a rare moment, but didn't quite let go of his haughty attitude. Azure eyes casting down onto Ichigo, he produced a feral grin that on instinct Ichigo knew was not good.

“Like yer mother?”

Ichigo's face darkened instantly, and he drove the back of his curved gloves hard against the bluenet's chest. But not nearly hard enough to budge him from the doorway. No, that was going to require a lot more effort than Ichigo was willing to admit.

“Keh. You lost. Quit sulking.” He started forward again, despite the rigid set frame of the body in his way, giving Grimmjow another hard experimental shove, only to find him impossible to move. His head snapped up to meet grinning blue eyes, and a vein twitched in his forehead.

“Can you, just once, at least try to act professional.” Grimmjow merely leaned a little down and a little closer as he wondered out loud, something playful in his azure eyes that warned of the kind of trouble that would never end. Though Ichigo knew that one already.

“Mmm..... like yer mother?” Ichigo muttered something cheap and obscene under his breath, choosing after the briefest internal struggle to ignore the physical play (because he was going to lose if he didn't fight dirty) and just deal with the taunts instead.

“Your jokes suck. Now move it, stupid.” Grimmjow smile only widened.

“You mean...”

Ichigo felt the his anger take a sharp right turn into a solid wall and snuff itself out, too tired to maintain itself. His face slackened, and his gaze and his eyelids both drooped as he waited for the inevitable...

“...like your mother?”

With painstaking work, he lifted his eyes to meet the enforcer's, tone drenched in boredom. 

“Are you done?” Grimmjow's eyes narrowed, lips scrunching a little in thought as he looked off to some imaginary place near the ceiling, head slightly inclined. He casually turned back to Ichigo and nodded once. Sharp and firm. Satisfied and self-confident.

“I am.”

Ichigo wanted to grind his eyeballs into the back of his skull with his palms, but he couldn't.

Well, at least one of them was impressed. With himself. Without lifting a finger, Grimmjow had proven that he could be as indomitable as any mountain, no path through, over or around him if he didn't will it so. Both physically and mentally.

A thought flitted in out of nowhere, like a big wet leaf in the face. And Ichigo imagined, suddenly, how it might feel to be pinned by him, like that. And then he remembered that he had felt like that once before, or damn close, in the hall. The fact that he'd been incensed about it at the time was an almost vague and hard to grasp tactile memory. If he could step back into that moment now, he wondered if he might see things differently. He might have... enjoyed it. Either way, it wasn't a good thought to have, and Ichigo forced the uninvited thought away and kicked his brain back into the present.

”Let's go then, idiot. And when we get on the ice, just try to keep up, alright?” His attempt at playful banter fell far short, vague irritation driving heat into his voice.

It was abrasive enough that Grimmjow cocked his head again and moved, but not out of the way. No. Long arm instead sweeping up to barricade the door. Again.

“Hnnn. That's funny... “ he leaned in, one azure eye narrowed; taunting, “'cuz, how'm I supposed to keep up with you when I'm obviously gonna be ahead of you?”

Ichigo's lips pulled into a sharp spear. And he reached out and lifted at the enforcer's thick arm from underneath. And why he expected it to move, he didn't know.

“Only if I let you... go... first,” he ground out, pushing up harder against heavy tense muscle while trying not to show it. What the hell was Grimmjow made of, anyway? Lead?? He scowled as he clenched his back teeth and threw his frame into it, unwilling to concede defeat. “And you said you were... done,” he gritted.

Grimmjow merely considered him from above, smirk showing little to no respect for his current predicament.

“I did. But then you had ta go and get the last word. And you know that's not how this works.” He sneered down at him, huff of breath from his short laugh ghosting against his face.

That was it. His libido couldn't handle any more of this closeness and teasing, and Ichigo steamed like a tea kettle.

“Can we just get through one doorway without you draping yourself all over me?!”

The enforcer's eyes widened and he faltered, throat catching in surprise. Draping himself? He wasn't doing that... 

It's true, he was a physical guy. And he loved to touch... though during game time it was mostly to hurt... But he wasn't usually all over the guys with physical play, a little tussling here and there maybe. He touched but he didn't consider himself overtly touchy. If it was for sex, that was a whole different arena. And even then, he hardly had to do anything. Just a simple brush of his arm by accident on a date was enough to have his conquests lathering him with affection. But then he liked to hold them tight, force them down, position them, make them submit and take him fully...

Grimmjow swallowed as he looked down into iron cast eyes. He suddenly couldn't decide which category Ichigo belonged to. He was a gray area to be sure. Ichigo had this quality that affected him. He found at times (perhaps to put Ichigo in his place?) he wanted to be close. Like now.

Grimmjow hadn't even realized just how many times he'd done that in one day.

Not that he was gonna stop. Hell, if it bothered Ichigo this much, then it was staying on the menu. Daily special.

Ichigo eyed his counterpart with growing mistrust. He had started to think he might have to flick the enforcer in the head. Despite the question that he now realized he had not thought through in any way, Grimmjow was just staring at him blankly. It did little to assuage Ichigo's temper though, and he glared back up at Grimmjow's sharp features, annoyed even further by the height difference. It was hard to stare someone down from beneath them.

It had only been a second or two, and Grimmjow came back to life on his own, a distant sound in his throat the only retort he seemed to be able to produce. Ichigo watched something flicker across his face, and wondered with an internal grimace if Grimmjow had taken his remark strangely. What was he going to say or do next that Ichigo would regret?

But then the enforcer moved. Simply and efficiently. No longer lingering across the frame of the door, but instead turning and allowing Ichigo the space to slide tightly between his body and the open doorway. Ichigo had but a moment to process and become alarmed before....

“Heh. You think I'm all over you now... ” And his wide spread grin was devastating.

Ichigo gripped his hockey stick tighter, stomach pulling inward, at the same time sinking into a warm pool of discomfort hidden beneath the padded layers of his hockey pants. Yep, he regretted it. He did not need to hear this kind of talk from him. And it was that much worse for it not meaning anything. He closed his eyes in a scowl.

“Whatever.” And he shook his head and wedged himself through. Not so close that they touched beyond the loose fabric of their jerseys and the bulk of their thick hockey pants - carefully orchestrated no doubt - but still closer than Ichigo could afford to get.

But he did skirt by, and they were finally on their way.

X X X

“So, what's the plan, exactly?” Grimmjow asked as he clomped down the hall behind the oranget and rounded the corner that led to the rink's entrance.

“My coach is going to meet us on the rink.”

That wasn't what Grimmjow was asking, as by now it was obvious. He was going to reword his question, but something small and shiny distracted him.

“You mean your old coach,” he corrected. Ichigo's head turned to the side as he walked, the side of his lean face visible for a moment.

“That's what I said.”

“No, you said your coach.”

“I.... “ Ichigo's head practically snapped around in an exorcist move this time, though he was still moving forward. “Dammit! Will you quit nitpicking everything I say?!” Grimmjow blinked, head tilting with interest.

“Well, quit saying stuff that's so easy to nitpick then,” he said simply. A small vein twitched on Ichigo's forehead, on the side that Grimmjow could see. But Ichigo merely gave Grimmjow his back.

“Don't make me regret this before we've even started,” he muttered, voice floating over his shoulders. Grimmjow grinned behind him.

“Heh. I assumed you already did.”

Ahead of him, Ichigo's lip twitched, dark eyes flicking upward in a moment of fondness he couldn't fight off.

“From minute one,” he snorted.

The last few paces towards the rink were filled with only the heavy clatter of gear and skates, the reference somehow bringing them both back to the odd moment at the beginning of their day. Nailing it home. When Grimmjow had touched Ichigo's face with such gentle curiosity. Not the first of many small moments they'd stumbled over and around since they'd met.

It seemed, behind them was impossible. They'd have to settle for putting awkward moments beside them.

X X X

Frozen. Empty. Theirs.

The playing field loomed large and pristine before them. A blank page. A temporary scribe, waiting for their story.

Armored in heavy black gloves, Ichigo lifted his long stick and swung it over the player's bench as he wrenched open the waist high door that would let them sink their skates into it.

Grimmjow followed, one heavy step behind. A simple lift and drop of his skate, a push, and then... the sharp bite of freedom beneath his feet. Movement so free, Grimmjow nearly sighed aloud with relief as his muscles began to work.

A thing born wild, finally freed from its cage.

The moment his skates touched down, the enforcer split apart from Ichigo. He veered hard to the right, strong muscles falling into that familiar rhythm, muscle memory kicking in without conscious thought, keeping his balance and motion. An instinct; like breathing. Each blade thrust aside, one then the other, each push propelling him forward, moving him across his section of their arena. His territory. His goal; to claim the space as his and stretch his wings.

He pushed harder, moved faster, and growled at the immediate release of pleasure. The sound quiet in his throat, but deep; personal. He let his momentum carry him around the end zone, swinging around behind the net, gliding in an arc around the tight corner.

It was almost like flying... when you had only ever known how to crawl.

Ok, maybe that was a tad dramatic. It had been less than two weeks after all. But it damn well felt like forever to him.

He didn't bother to take it slow and allow his limbs to warm and stretch as he left the bonds of the earth behind him, so drawn into the release. The freedom.

The enforcer's blades were doing the thing they were designed to do, like his own body. And together he let them take him around the edges of the rink. He leaned low and hard to his left, his momentum the only force keeping him from going over, skimming back around the short curves of the rink's end, then centering his weight and rushing down the long straight stretch and into open ice, navigating frozen waters with all the finesse and mettle of an oceanic bird.

While he allowed himself this private moment to indulge in the thrill of the feeling, the emotion would never show on his face. No one watching him would see it. He wasn't feeling out his surroundings though, as much as he was his own body. His concussion symptoms had been minute lately, only a slight headache if he pushed himself to his limits. Otherwise, he felt good.

His skate caught an edge as he swung around the curve towards the net again. He had to work not to lose his balance, to correct before he took a spill. He huffed air as he pulled himself together. It was minute. His stumble. Nothing more than a barely-there glitch to an observer. It wasn't perfect. His muscles remembered, and his skates felt like old friends, but ones just a bit out of touch after too much time spent away. They had some catching up to do. But it wouldn't be long before Grimmjow found his limbs and bent his body to his will again.

Ichigo watched Grimmjow from the side of his eye when he could, amazed at seeing the depth of the pleasure Grimmjow was feeling from being back on the ice. He watched even while he circled in his own end. He turned. He saw it. The small slip of Grimmjow's skate. The determined enthusiasm in his set jaw. Then he let it out of his mind. Grimmjow was just fine. And the small slip was normal. And Ichigo was adrift for the same serene moment in a limitless ocean of his own. One fed by memories. Of growing up. Of honing his skills. Of coming into himself on this home ice rink. Of feeling his own limits. Of finding out that he had none.

The rink slipped past them both like a natural breeze, neither consumed with the other or their futures for one long, blissful moment.

They went around like that for a minute or two, warming up in their own silent cathedral, before they began to spread out and share the space, hugging the boards and lapping the ice, a slow and steady climb in their competitive natures bringing them in line with each other as they raised their heart rates and gathered speed.

Until the man they'd been waiting for finally made his presence known.

“Boys! So good to see you!” The cheerful voice carried down the ice, crisp and whimsical.

The both turned and looked toward the players bench, to the man skating towards them in full goalie armor. Ichigo's coach, his old coach and esteemed mentor, made his way out to center ice, gloves in one hand, large goalie stick in the other. His goalie mask was on, though the mask itself was flipped up. It left his eyes shadowed somehow, Grimmjow noted, even though the bright lights of the arena should have had no trouble passing between the protective cage of the mask and reaching his face.

“Urahara-san”, Ichigo nodded. And Grimmjow's attention shot back from Ichigo to him, before he eyed him with a quizzical frown.

“San?” he repeated, a note of cynicism bleeding through.

Ichigo glanced sideways, but said nothing. Grimmjow decided to let it go. He'd maybe ask later.

“Kurosaki-San. Grimmjow-San.”

Grimmjow's brow arched again. Ok. Maybe later was now.

The man approached them in a slick buttery slide, one that made Grimmjow twitch slightly, before he seemed to halt himself without even a turn of his blades or a visible twist of his hips. Grimmjow's gaze sharpened, the enforcer forgetting his earlier question in light of his newest one. He had noticed that like he would notice someone speeding their car around a sharp corner without even touching the wheel. You had to use the edge of your skates to stop, twist your leg to shave the blade across the ice. And most guys turned at the hip a bit. But Ichigo's coach did neither. He just.... stopped.

“You got brakes on those things?” he frowned, lip lifting to show a glint of white.

Urahara hardly took notice of the flavor of the question. He looked slightly amused, but not offended. Ichigo, though, made a rather loud and uncomfortable growling noise in the back of his throat which could have, in caveman times, translated to WTF, Grimmjow?

Because it had been an insult, actually. A suggestion that Urahara had ice-skater's pics on the front of his skates. Hockey players, of course, did not use them.

“Oh nooo”, Urahara chimed agreeably, grey eyes widening in a way that Grimmjow could only take as some sort of perverse love of such a remedial challenge.

He waited for the man's explanation like he was standing in a long line to pay for a coffee order that he just knew was going to be wrong.

“I assure you these are regulation hockey skates.” Urahara met Grimmjow's challenging gaze with the same curious ease he'd used to come to a stop, and his smile turned irritatingly broad and knowing. “As much as I love to practice my true craft, I keep my other pair at home.” Then he winked. 

Grimmjow's nose creased slightly. The man actually winked at him.

If he'd had less control, his lip would have peeled back entirely, both canines flashing. As it was, he waited, blue eyes narrowed and watching. And then the man had the gaul to dip his head into a small bow.

Grimmjow kept his level stare on him, the corner of his mouth pulling back into the most insincere expression, like he'd been offered a plate of rotten meat.

“Hn.”

He did not like this man.

Behind the smile and innocent facade, he was as slippery as the ice the three of them now stood on.

“Ah. But I beg your pardon. I have not properly introduced myself,” the coach beamed. “My name is Kisuke Urahara. But please,” he bowed again lightly, “call me by whatever name makes you feel comfortable.”

Grimmjow opened his mouth, happy to honor the coach's request when Ichigo cut him off, voice sharper than needed, quick and deliberate.

“Urahara-san... ” he half yelled the man's name out before he realized how loud he was and dialed it down.

“Yes Ichigo,” Urahara turned his shadowy gaze toward the young forward he had trained, seeming oblivious to Grimmjow's distasteful look.

“Can we skip the...” Ichigo's tone began in its usual blunt, angry way. But he seemed to become aware of it, and reeled himself in again, the growl swept just underneath his breath directed somehow at the both of them, Grimmjow noticed. It was almost painful, the way Ichigo was twisting and bending himself into something he clearly wasn't. Polite and humble. 

“I mean... I just want to thank you for having us. We appreciate it.” Or maybe he was just nice at the heart of it, and it was Grimmjow who brought out that other side so often and so easily. He felt his insides crinkle. He kind of liked that idea. He kind of liked it a lot.

And then Ichigo did something Grimmjow couldn't have ever imagined himself seeing, unless he was high as fuck on something.

Ichigo bowed.

And it wasn't sarcastic. No. It was the most humble fucking thing he'd ever seen Ichigo do. Not even when giving interviews, or signing autographs, or doing charity work did he seem as respectful as he was acting right now. Nice was nice, but this was sickening. He was fucking putty in this man's hands. A student bowing to his master.

And yet, here Grimmjow was, all kinds of neck hair standing on end, thinking this guy was possibly going to be the most obtuse, annoying human being Grimmjow had ever had the misfortune of running across. And he knew people like Ulquiorra, Nnoitra and..... ugh... Shinji.

Ichigo looked from Urahara to the silent enforcer, and watched as Grimmjow's sharp scowl seemed to fold in on itself, like a tesseract.

“Urahara-san. Can we just... have a... second?” he asked, dark eyes flicking to his partner and back.

“Of course!” the bright faced coach replied. “I'll just get a few things while you boys talk.” He skated back towards the bench where he'd left whatever items he'd brought with him. And Ichigo turned to face his bristling counterpart, his free hand raised to shut him up before he could start.

“Grimmjow... he's doing us a huge favor.”

The bluenet radiated skepticism, blue eyes trained like watchdog beyond Ichigo's shoulder to the man now out of earshot. Ichigo sighed.

“Please just go with whatever he asks you. It's just for a couple of hours.”

Grimmjow stared back at him with little to no expression at all for a long moment before he sprung to life again. He made a wet sound against his teeth and turned his head to the side.

“Fine.” He grit his agreement out, starting to turn away, then stopped to pin Ichigo with a fierce glare. “But if he tells me to BE the puck, “ he sliced a hand sideways through the air, “I'm outta here.”

Ichigo rolled his eyes as his childish partner turned to skate away. The more he got to know him....

“Fine.”


	30. Chapter 30

The sharp edge of steel blades swept curved white lines across the ice, a story etched by the fluid dance of a warrior's scythes.

The little black puck was a mere captive on his stick, carried fast and close as the world flew by in reverse.

Ichigo crossed the finish line and sheered to a stop. A rooster tail of white mist kicked up and fell. A whistle blew. And without hesitation, he turned himself around and did it again.

The obstacle course he manoeuvred through was long and winding. An army of bright orange pylons littered the ice in strategic formation, every last one of them placed there by Grimmjow and Ichigo under their temporary coach's explicit direction.

Grimmjow of course, had taken offence.

Brown eyes lost their focus for a moment, body moving through the routine while his mind drifted.

And why wouldn't the enforcer take offence? That type of set up was usually done by the coaching assistants. But Urahara, according to him, was using the two of them as gophers... because the man was obviously lazy.

Ichigo mentally shook his head as he replayed the bluenet's most recent complaint on his last run through the pylons, body running perfectly well on autopilot. There was no pleasing Grimmjow. If there was nothing to pick at, then he would make something to pick at.

He was stubborn as hell when he got his back up.

Didn't Ichigo know it.

But here they were, regardless of everything. And despite Grimmjow's aloof nature (the way, Ichigo had learned, he guarded himself around people he didn't really know, and just as often around people he did) things were looking relatively good.

Acerbic introductions completed, the trio had begun with a warm up, nothing unusual about their chosen routine of skating around pylon after pylon, forwards and then backwards without losing control of the puck. They did a variety of drills after that.

There were laps for speed and endurance. Then they raced each other. And it was no surprise that they were nearly matched.

The first two runs were decisive, though. Ichigo was the faster. It made sense to everyone. Even a purse lipped Grimmjow. Ichigo was in far better shape than the enforcer was at the moment. But after warming up, Grimmjow took a win. Not that it showed on his face. Ichigo had smirked to himself before he caught Urahara's eye. The coach had nodded. He'd wanted one more race from them.

They went at it again. The enforcer's brief surge in energy declined, and Ichigo bested him three more times.

X X X

Grimmjow's expression was sour as he covered the green mile to the bench. Breath hard and body hunched forward, his weight and his stick were braced against his knees for support. Sweat ran down the bridge of his nose and fell from its tip. He sliced to an oblique stop against the boards, Urahara's yammering passing him over like a wordless waterfall as he forced his spine to upright itself and began to slug back a drink.

He usually drank more water that this, but today he reached for the power drinks Urahara had brought for them. There really was no point in arguing. The coach had anticipated Grimmjow's needs. This training was more a little more intense than what he'd been doing the past week. The jogging, the swimming; he'd pushed himself, but that was basic cardio and endurance. This was interval training; zero to sixty, flat out, over and over. Only thirty minutes in and he had started to feel a little wobbly.

As anticipated.

Grimmjow scowled even as he drained the container and reached for another. He was even more determined now to push through until his second wind kicked in. No one was going to underestimate him.

Between swallows, he heard the words five and break, and shook his head.

"Two minutes," he grunted, glance snapping sideways.

The impassive faces of the other two men offered him a barely considering look before they turned away again and started talking about skaterly things and club happenings.

Grimmjow's lip rose on automatic, and he went back to consuming his drink.

Three minutes later, they were going again.

X X X

Twenty more minutes of the basics and Grimmjow was bitching in Ichigo's ear like it was his personal confessional as they photo finished yet another race down the ice and swung around the back of the net. They were both annoyed to find themselves in yet another tie.

Tying was not winning.

"I thought he was supposed to have some sorta black belt in coaching," Grimmjow groused as he glared darkly across the empty stretch of ice that lay between them and the bench where their temporary coach sat waiting with his head sitting at one angle before sliding to another.

Grimmjow squinted, hackles rising. Was he… reading?

"Do you ever quit whining." Ichigo sounded tired, cutting a slowing trail on a single blade and leaning into a resting glide while his breathing settled. Grimmjow's lip arched.

"Tch. No. But I sure do piss and moan a lot when I ask a simple fuckin' question and don't get an answer." The twitch around Ichigo's eyes was humourless.

"He's a great coach. Not as great as you are at whining though. That an answer for you?" Grimmjow snorted, unwilling to be derailed by arguing against Ichigo's possibly well founded point.

"What the hell's he got that so special?" he pushed, still denied a proper answer, and content to let his own annoyance infect like a disease. "Cuz I'm not seeing it."

"There's a big surprise," Ichigo ground out.

"Hn." Grimmjow waited a beat for something more, and got nothing. His lip rose in distaste. "I knew you were both full a crap."

Ichigo's throat made a funny sound, and he turned on Grimmjow like a trigger as his emberring temper jumped like a tiny solar flare. He cut the ice in two as he stopped them both, curled fist running hard into Grimmjow's thick shoulder, brown eyes full of last straws. His jaw clenched, his words clipped with impossible restraint.

"You know, you might actually find out if you'd quit being so God... Damn... impatient."

"I am being patient," Grimmjow snarled back, meeting the terse rush of anger with a small surge of his own. "Patient as a goddamn saint. And yet," he gestured to the rink around them, "I can't help noticing this is still the same old shit we always do."

Grimmjow could feel the way Ichigo's tightened mental chord finally snapped, face tinging with the temper that had been fraying steadily under Grimmjow's constant abrasion. He pulled back and practically wrung his stick as if it were Grimmjow's neck.

"That's because this is just a warm up, you simpleton!"

Ichigo released a slew of curses as he turned and broke away with a hard kick of his blades, stick still gripped in both gloves.

Still choking Grimmjow.

The real Grimmjow, though, moved with him. He glared resentment at the side of Ichigo's head as they continued their short journey across the too-long rink, arctic eyes narrowed. Ichigo was right of course. Grimmjow was being a little impatient. But com'on. He had every right to be.

A simpleton, though? He was anything but.

"You know I let you win those races," he grunted, the sound of it smarmy even to his own ears. He watched for the way Ichigo's lips would pinch tightly in response before those stormy brown eyes turned to flash cold knives in his direction.

"Oh, bite me."

Grimmjow scowled and mentally chastised himself. And was suddenly fresh out of comebacks as they closed in on the player's bench. Probably for the better. He couldn't have come up with anything much stupider than that anyway.

They both arrived at the bench in two hard crystalline sprays of powdered ice, tempers turning to cold drizzle in the face of Urahara's blindingly cheerful greeting.

"I see we're ready to step things up!" The man smiled broadly at the two soured faces before him, and carried on as if they weren't.

Urahara didn't feel the burn of their misdirected glares through his over-sized goalie jersey as he bent forward and retrieved a large white bucket from behind the bench and, a few moments later, dumped its contents onto center ice.

Fifty black pucks flooded the ice like scattering rubber roaches. They spread themselves loosely about, some sliding further than others around the center line. The coach stilled for a moment, regarding the rink and seeming to think about something. Then he turned towards his two students with an expression of utter seriousness that blew the last of their tempers to remnants and grabbed their full attention, Grimmjow's most of all as Urahara met his eyes.

He didn't speak loudly. But his voice reached them both as if he had.

"I hope your ready to work."

Grimmjow grunted as Urahara passed by them and returned to the bench. It was a command, a challenge, and a sincere nod to Grimmjow's current health issues.

There was, of course, one problem that he didn't fail to notice immediately. That the man it was coming from was already settling himself back down into the cushion he'd placed on the player's bench. And in point of fact, had been doing little but tootling on his whistle at them from that damn cushion for the last fifty minutes.

Grimmjow stood on the ice, waiting for a long moment to retrieve their next set of instructions, the enforcer's nerves twitching again as the coach simply sat there, rummaging around behind the boards and beneath his skates for something Grimmjow couldn't see. He looked to Ichigo for an answer, but the forward seemed hellbent on fixating on his old coach instead of acknowledging Grimmjow. He eyed him for a moment.

He wanted to punch him. Just because.

Instead he willed that energy to bleed down into shifting skates.

When Urahara finally popped up, he had a long silver thermos in one hand and a cup in the other.

Unable to redirect his annoyance any longer, Grimmjow's vision narrowed. He raised his chin and sneered down his nose at the coach.

"S'matter old man. You run outta gas er somethin'?"

Urahara's returning smile held a considering look that dragged Grimmjow's stony gaze level again.

"No pressure intended, Grimmjow-san," he started slowly, looking down into his cup and pouring the hot liquid smoothly from one vessel to the other. "But let us be honest about the entirety of the situation for a moment. Or, as you might say," He looked up. "let's call a spade a spade."

The man lifted his thermos cup of... tea of all things... and took a long sedentary sip, his grey eyes only half closing in calm appreciation as he kept a visual on the unimpressed enforcer before him.

Urahara had met plenty of young males like this one. They were often nice guys outside the rink. But put them on the ice, put them on the spot, and goad them into the role they played so often and so well... Never expect to keep your teeth. This one was no different. And yet he was.

Grimmjow straightened, the silence of the arena yawning around them. He was bristling, expecting to be baited. A buck with too much testosterone and too little control. Certainly an intimidating thing to be in the way of, for most people. Urahara met the cold blue eyes with easy measured calm.

"If you don't recapture your fire," he said seriously, "you're going to have a bright future behind you."

The enforcer's nose took on a small wrinkle. That was all the man had to say? He'd expected him to say something more... antagonistic. But what he said was basically true. No pressure of course. But Grimmjow could handle hockey pressure. He was made for it.

This slack jawed style of coaching, though... that got under his skin. A fang glinted as his lip twitched, nothing else to indicate he was anything but composed.

"If I'm not careful, I might end up coaching."

Urahara lifted his cup in a small salute. "Touche." And took another sip.

There was hardly room for a heartbeat between that unflappable calm and the enforcer's reaction. The mask cracked, and he finally let loose what they all knew he'd been thinking.

"You gonna sit there on yer ass and play tea house while we do all the work?" he challenged, voice an angry rumble. "'Cuz I know that approach, and it doesn't do much for me."

Ichigo remained silent, as he had since their conversation began. He wasn't thrilled with the way Grimmjow was acting, but he knew just how cool Urahara could be when up against pigheaded young males. He could admit now, that he'd been very much like Grimmjow when he'd first met his coach, but for different reasons. This was why he'd brought the enforcer here anyway. Ichigo and Grimmjow had a gift. And so did Urahara.

And his gift was in seeing through people's shit.

So, there was nothing to do but let them get on with it. Besides, Ichigo agreed with the bluenet's general principal. And he wondered if Grimmjow wasn't referring in part to their current coach's style of coaching. He had a few good ideas, but mostly, he tended to yell at them from the sidelines and let the assistant coaches do all the heavy lifting. Unless he had something to really yell about. That, he did himself.


	31. Chapter 31

What a half crapped out idea this was turning out to be.

After consuming what had to be a metric tonne of water, Grimmjow forced himself back out onto the ice. He'd rather suffer through the hurt than look weak in front of these two.

He'd never admit it aloud, but he was almost regretting the way he'd argued with Ichigo's old coach just... was it just an hour ago? It felt like months.

It hadn't gone well for him. There was nothing that could be said to the man that he couldn't counter with a spoon-full of smallness hidden behind that shadowy smile.

"You gonna sit there on yer ass and play tea house while we do all the work? 'Cuz I know that approach, and it doesn't do much for me."

Ichigo's coach had taken a small sip of the much maligned tea before addressing the enforcer's very reasonable statement.

"There's a very wide net over there." He'd nodded toward the business end of the rink. "I'd like to see if you can put those little pucks in it."

After a moment of stunned silence, Grimmjow was mighty happy to oblige. He stomped - as much as a guy could stomp on skates - across the rink and slammed half the pucks down the ice in seconds. Most of them even went in the net.

And then Grimmjow had turned with such painful slowness... when Urahara called out to him from his bench. Cheerfully.

"You have a swing like a rusty gate."

Ichigo, for his part, had tensed for it, his hockey glove covering the lower part of his face suspiciously. And Grimmjow had grumbled something that may have sounded faintly to the others like mother fucker. Because it was. But he didn't outright explode.

"Do you see pucks in the fuckin' net?" he yelled back, arm extended towards said net for Urahara's benefit, since the blind old guy clearly needed a visual aid.

Urahara had chirped back a response fit for the game.

"Very nice! I can see why you make such a good enforcer!"

Grimmjow had snorted, his laugh short, and the tilt of his head slow and decidedly unfriendly.

"Yeah, eh? You gonna stand in fronna the net 'n say that?"

From the side, Ichigo had rested his gloves on his stick and his chin on his gloves as Urahara set his thermos of tea down and picked up his goalie mask.

Ichigo's mentor or not, Grimmjow could have had more respect for the man, but he didn't. At that point, Grimmjow had figured he'd just play with him a little. Ichigo meant well. But this guy's brand of weirdness wasn't Grimmjow's scene, not in hockey training, not in his personal life, not in anything. Grimmjow had always been committed to improving, and he'd made it this far without being annoyed to the bone by some half lit sensei wannabe hockey coach who probably kept a stash in the back of the drawer of his office desk.

X X X

That was the point in time when Ichigo too had felt his jaw tighten and his shoulders go rigid... and maybe his soul pack it up and go home. But for different reasons.

Here were two of the most mule headed people he'd ever met, both equally set in their own ways. And he'd brought them together. What had he been thinking? He'd been asking himself that a lot today. And probably would again later.

X X X

"This is stupid!" He spat in frustration, eyes nearly as shiny from anger as his lips were from spittle. "It's fucking rocking chair races!"

While Grimmjow spun away, stick smashing against the ice - an impulsive display of frustration - and screeched like a banshee to himself about Urahara's latest drill, Ichigo made a quiet noise of agreement.

It did feel that way. And it would to Grimmjow. Like they were putting in a whole lot of effort, and not getting anywhere. But Ichigo knew better just how this particular training worked. And if Urahara could pull it off, rather, if Grimmjow could be reached, Grimmjow might finally start seeing some results before their day was out.

But first, without a doubt, Urahara was going to push Grimmjow to his mental breaking point. He had to be angry enough to want to beat Urahara, and hungry enough to actually do it.

Ichigo honestly didn't know what it was inside Grimmjow that needed reaching exactly. But Urahara had a knack for seeing through a player and pulling his soul right out through his teeth if he had to, and putting it where it needed to be. Though at this point, Ichigo was wondering if Urahara was just pissing him off for his own enjoyment.

The drill was this. After Grimmjow and Ichigo had slapped about a hundred pucks each towards an empty net, Urahara had donned his mask, skated like a soft sticky looking marshmallow towards the red steel frame with its thick and sturdy white mesh netting, and placed himself plum in front of it.

"Continue," he'd said politely, all but his eyes and nose covered behind the cage of his mask.

With an air that Ichigo found concerning, notably the look of blind excitement in his ice blue eyes, Grimmjow had wound up high and began firing off shot after shot straight at their would-be goalie.

Between the third and fourth shot, the enforcer spared one silent glance at Ichigo, who said nothing in return. Both their expressions said enough.

Grimmjow, you're being a gigantic asshole.

So fucking what if I am? He's asking for it, and you know it.

Though his determination didn't lessen any, the glee of his blood lust had faded quickly. The enforcer expected the man to get annoyed, but he did not. He expected the man to fend off his onslaught with some degree of talent, but he did not.

All in all, Urahara had failed to impress. A few pucks bounced off his thick goalie pads with a heavy thwump, and a few were caught in his over-sized gloves, but the rest found their way with ease to the back of the net, skipping between his legs, skirting passed his arms, or flying over his shoulders. He was nothing more than a dummy in the net.

"Fuck me if I'm wrong on this one," Grimmjow had rumbled snidely as he skimmed past Ichigo and curved sharply around behind him, "But you gotta know how to play some hockey to be allowed to coach it, right?"

Ichigo only shook his head, a silent admonishment for the derogatory comment. He didn't spare much of a look at the enforcer though, annoyed to feel his skin flush just a little from Grimmjow's crude suggestion.

"Very good! Now let's try some hard ones!" The joyous decree came from their distant net minder. And it brought Grimmjow to a dead stop, the blue of his eyes almost lost against white for a moment. He frowned darkly at the coach before turning to Ichigo.

"What the fuck is his problem," he asked without expecting an answer.

Those shots were damn hard. He hadn't held back an inch. And here this jackass was still taunting him, beaming at them, and asking for more. His lip pulled back as Urahara sent the pucks he'd collected back one at a time with a flick of his stick.

One slid to a stop at the tip of his skate. He looked down at it.

A cruel twist formed at the corner of his mouth, and arctic blue eyes lifted slowly to consider the too relaxed air of the man in the net.

Well, nobody ever said Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez wasn't a giver. He raised his stick high and brought it down like a sledge hammer on the nearest puck.

It flexed when it hit the ice.

Another hundred shots later, and nothing had changed. Pointless. A waste of his time. A joke. That's what this was.

"This is stupid! It's fucking rocking chair races!" Grimmjow spun away from the sight of nearly a hundred black pucks heaped in a useless pile against the mesh at the back of the net. He cursed and slammed his stick down, the anarchic violence of it doing really very little to assuage his temper.

"Ooooh! I could use a break." Urahara appeared beside him like a rip in space, and Grimmjow flinched at his sudden presence. "That was a tough workout for me!"

The enforcer clenched his teeth and rolled his eyes in disgust.

"Quit yankin' my chain. You didn't even fuckin' try," he growled.

"Ohh," sighed Urahara, sounding exceptionally wounded. But Grimmjow wasn't buying the shit he was selling.

"There's no way yer that bad a goaltender," he started again, trailing off, one eye narrowing to a slit. No way he was that bad.

"I am a little rusty, I do admit it." Urahara's closed eyes were a crescent smile as he scratched a large glove across the back of his helmet, shifting it to get an itch. "I always preferred a nice defensive position myself."

A moment of nothing and Urahara opened his eyes to see the young enforcer just staring back at him, a mix of bland suspicion and enough determination in those icy eyes to make Urahara wonder if he might be trying to solve for x.

Without warning, Urahara burst to life again, arms and giant goalie stick flying up over his head, narrowly missing the enforcer, and causing both the young Soul Reapers to startle.

"Well boys! I think it's time for a fireside chat!"

X X X

"Yours is a mental block." His attention was fixed on the enforcer, gray eyes sharp and serious, as if all hints of playfulness had been bled from them.

Grimmjow stood looking down with an annoyed and perplexed fawn-like sort of awe at Ichigo's old coach, in a rare moment for him, lost as to what to say or do next. He'd still been stuck on fireside chat when Urahara had removed his mask and plopped right down in front of them on the center line.

"They didn't let you out." The enforcer's head listed to the left. "You escaped, didn't you?" He wondered it aloud and couldn't care less about it, ignoring the perturbed look he could feel emanating from Ichigo.

Urahara had made himself comfortable on the ice, sitting in a cross legged lotus position. Not the easiest thing to do with thick pads on his shins and sharp blades for feet.

"Please." Urahara gestured to the ice with an open palm. "Join me."

Ichigo lowered himself to the ice. But Grimmjow was a statue, his voice granite.

"Yeah, I'm good."

Urahara took no mind of his reluctant student. It could wait. He turned to the orangette first, their eyes level with each other.

"I've been watching your games, Ichigo. You've been fighting for yourself alone. You did not learn that here."

Ichigo's eyebrows took an affronted nosedive, the denial forming on his lips dying out as fast as it had been conjured.

"When you stray from your true self," Urahara continued pleasantly, "you must return to your roots to remember who you are. You used to fight for the team. For others."

From the side, Grimmjow chimed in.

"Puh. I coulda told ya he's full'a himself."

"Stick it up your ass, Grimmjow."

"Make me, penis breath."

Urahara hardly raised an eyebrow, his sombre voice gathering Ichigo's attention back into the moment and onto him alone.

"You stood for a cause greater than yourself." Ichigo's eyes flickered downward, and Urahara tipped his head, drawing them back. "Where did that boy go, I wonder? As hard as I might look, I don't see him."

An extra large hockey blade, old school and wooden, appeared and poked him in the chest. "Is he here?" It rose to meet his heart. "Or here, perhaps?"

The sound in Ichigo's throat spoke to his discomfort. It's nature, not physical. A knowing eyebrow arched behind the goalie stick.

"No? Not there?"

Urahara smiled against Ichigo's studied frown, one of concentration and long tempered inherent skepticism. "He is you," he said with finality and a small yet disturbing amount of satisfaction. Ichigo scowled as he always had when faced with his Confucius of a coach.

"You are every part of you. You are layers, and he is there within them, always. But you've lost sight of him, Ichigo. Tucked him away in your rush to greatness. Don't fear the fearlessness in him. Find him. Only he will take you where you want to go."

Above them, the bluenet had no words, his normally sharp and smooth features screwed up into a peeved ball of disdain.

Ichigo nodded and rose. He knew what Urahara meant. His hand tightened around his stick. The darkness. He had cornered it once. Then again and again. Confronted it until he could do so without fear, then learned to use it. Turned it into something beautiful and powerful. It was a moment before he realized he was looking at Grimmjow, who's hard blue eyes were now carefully looking back at him. The enforcer moved, eating up the few feet of bare ice that lay between them. He half looked like he was going to leave.

But Grimmjow only leaned in and rumbled side-stage right against Ichigo's ear.

"If you made sense of that, I don't think we can be friends anymore."

"Who said we were friends," Ichigo snapped, the almost zen-like moment broken as he quickly shoved the enforcer and his too hot breath the hell out of his ear canal. He half expected a shove back, but Grimmjow's attention was a bird in flight.

"So what're you gonna do that any other coach can't do, huh?" Grimmjow challenged. "Besides sounding like you write bad fortune cookies."

"Ah." Urahara nodded with complete calm. "Remind you of what matters."

"An' what's that?" he asked, the question stretched like taffy into a sardonic drawl.

Without so much as a tell, Urahara was on two skates and in motion, up and moving and skating away from his aggressive new student, backwards at that, looping in a small circle around a puck, singsonging, almost to himself it seemed.

"The heart of the matter is, it's the heart that matters."

A sharp blue scowl followed Urahara's movements as he looped and turned in front of them.

"I got heart," Grimmjow snapped, a large glove thumping against his chest.

Urahara chuckled quietly, and Grimmjow grit his teeth. The man had a laugh that had a way of making everything sound like you were stuck just outside of an inside joke.

"That's not the kind of heart I'm talking about." Like a cool breeze, Urahara passed by the two young men, his voice coming out strong over the sharp slice of blades against the ice, even as he drifted further away from them in his little orbit of the puck. "You've forgotten your love of the game."

His back. His side. His front. The coach wasn't even looking at them, his answers directed towards the puck and the empty air of the arena. Grimmjow half expected the man to disappear like mist and leave only a floating cheshire smile behind.

"Loss can be a powerful motivator."

Grimmjow's gaze sharpened.

"But if not confronted, it can consume you."

Tension straightened his stance.

"Spend too much time in death, Grimmjow, and you will never return to life."

Heat flared up his neck, like hot crawling ants.

Urahara continued to talk, almost to himself, like a child at play with an imaginary friend. Perhaps, aware of the danger he was invoking. Perhaps not.

"You've faced great loss for one so young."

Grimmjow's jaw muscles worked against themselves. His breath coming faster than it should. Eyes finding focus on empty shadows behind the man passing him smoothly by.

"And though I know you want to win, I see fear in your heart."

His mind was chasing its tail. It spun. And spun some more. Until it fractured. And azure eyes ignited with cold heat.

"Fuck you."

The swishing blades stopped.

"Fuck you. I ain't afraid of nuthin'!"

"Tsk. Oh dear." The sound was sincere. "I've touched a nerve and made you angry."

"I ain't fuckin' angry!" His voice carried all the way up to where the lone janitor in the highest rows of the empty arena stopped his broom. The silence that followed stretched.

"That's good to hear." Urahara said it with an amiable smile, his head tipped forward . "So then... why are you yelling, Grimmjow-san?"

Grimmjow's mouth snapped shut. He wasn't yelling. And he wasn't angry.

It's just. He thought. For a second, he'd thought...

Without another word, the coach turned his back on his two pupils and skated back down the ice to the net he had so far so diligently minded. It was Grimmjow's heckling that he faced when he turned around and took up a ready position. Grimmjow gathered height, a deep and haughty breath clearing out his lungs.

"Oh, you actually gonna stop a few pucks now?" If Grimmjow could have sat back on his stick and picked his nose in disinterest, he would have. He shot a sneer towards his orange-haired teammate, ignoring the way he was being stared at. "That's original. Big surprise. Yup." And if it seemed like too much of an effort to level his tone, it was.

"Yes." Urahara replied, body hunching and legs braced. "Now..." Then suddenly, the tone of their coach changed as well. "Show me your attack."

Grimmjow expression fell slack and he blinked twice, voice lowering, cautious in the way one would be with a stranger offering candies on the street.

"My what?"

"Your attack," Urahara repeated. "Show me."

Grimmjow sent a baleful eye towards Ichigo.

Ichigo just raised a thin unsupportive eyebrow.

With a sneer and small shake of his head at the both of them, Grimmjow slid his stick across the ice and started to play the puck back and forth. Then he moved, skates shearing outward as he propelled himself forward, quickly picking up speed.

Urahara pulled his mask down. And became.

A barrier to be broken through. An obstacle.

The physical manifestation of Grimmjow's mental block.

X X X

"Che."

Just fifteen lucky saves later, and Urahara raised a hand to pause the enforcer.

"That's fifteen for meeeee," he cooed. "Just one for you, Grimmjow-san."

Grimmjow growled low to himself, but wasn't going to allow himself to be goaded.

"Yeah, well, I was goin' easy on you... cuz, you know..." he glanced at Ichigo, then back to Urahara and made a winding motion around his temple with his gloved index finger. "Yer crazy."

"Ah, yes. I must admit I did let myself become distracted," Urahara replied. "I started to think about the peewee class I'm teaching later today. And I thought perhaps that would be more... your speed."

Azure eyes popped open. The fuck. The fuck?! Then narrowed into slits.

So, that's how it was gonna be, eh? The gloves were off. Grimmjow's angry smirk stretched outward. Good then. Good.

"Now then, boys." Urahara slapped the goal posts once each with his stick, then crouched. "Come at me."

Grimmjow chuffed and shook his head in disdain. He leaned forward on his stick, nine lives nonchalant, both gloves wrapped over its end, graciously allowing Ichigo first crack at the man who had taken up an unfortunate residence between the goal posts. His disdain was tangible across the ice. And he looked back towards the net in disbelief when that lilting voice called out to them again.

"At the same time. Do not stop until you break through my defense."

"Che." Well now that was just...

"If you can break though my defence."

Grimmjow actually barked out a laugh. The guy thought he was gonna stop the both of them at once? Repeatedly? Not likely.

If he was lucky, maybe Grimmjow would make an oopsie and bean one off the guy's head. He looked over at Ichigo again, expecting at least a look of solidarity, and frowned. Ichigo was lining up his pucks, getting ready to go. The brat really was taking this seriously.


	32. Chapter 32

Rows of cold seats sat empty, no fans to warm them. The scent of pizza and beer was absent from the air.

No clatter of music in the small arena. No thrum of enthusiasm from the crowd. Just the crisp echo of sticks slapping against the ice and the unforgiving ping of frozen rubber off metal. And a few swears.

There was no energy to feed from, except their own. But there was plenty of it. Just not the good kind.

X X X

It wasn't a big surprise that Grimmjow was scowling like a gargoyle in a thunderstorm. Ichigo knew exactly what he was putting Grimmjow through. He'd lived it himself for a few years. Urahara had a way about him, a personality and training style that could turn the gentlest, most grounded of young men homicidal.

Until the moment you finally understood what he was trying to draw from you.

“Are you shitting me?” he yelled first to the empty air.

“Is this guy for real?” The next he directed at Ichigo.

“I don't suck this much!” he snarled mostly to himself.

“Is that even a regulation sized stick?” he bellowed the distance to the net.

“I assure you, it is,” came the distant and quite cheerful reply.

For his part, Grimmjow was undecided on which thing was most aggravating. The fact that nothing had gotten past Ichigo's old overconfident, sanctimonious and frankly smarmy coach, or the fact that Urahara was miles more obnoxious than Grimmjow could hope to be on his very best day. Or worst... depending on who you asked.

Eighty seven shots from every conceivable distance, direction, and angle the enforcer could come up with, not to mention Ichigo's contributions, and not a single one had made it through. The disgusting fact of the matter was, that Grimmjow was getting his ass handed to him by Ichigo's coach.

The enforcer's jaw was locked in distaste.

“I have no doubt that you believe you want to win, Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez. The question is, why do you think you want to win?”

The enforcer looked for another puck to hit, movements erratic and irritable.

“No. The question is, what kind of stupid question is that?”

Urahara stood at the centre of the net, arms relaxed in front of himself and crossed loosely at the wrists. Even the goalie stick he held onto looked as though it was slouching against the ice by his skates; lethargic.

He'd like to lay a slap shot into his teeth.

In fact.

“No matter how many times you come at me Grimmjow-san, until you can accept the truth of your failings and embrace your desires, the result will always be the same.”

Fuck. He missed. Well then, he'd have to try again.

“The only one who can beat you, is you.”

Maybe one in the pills. Dammit.

“How many times are you going to show off your clumsiness?”

Grimmjow growled out through his nose, pressurizing like heat before...

“So, you gonna make me better by showing me how much I fucking suck?!” he bawled.

The man in the net waved at him.

“How about we take a quick break first, hmm?”

The sound of steel blades torquing against the ice and shaving down its contents was acute.

“That's it! I'm done with this float like a butterfly shit!”

The goalie in the net perked up.

“Great! I love your energy!” he cooed. “Now let's use that and begin!”

“Begin?” he echoed, blue eyes flashing angry disbelief. “Begin?! What the hell have we been doin' all this time?!” he screeched.

Urahara used one large glove like a megaphone and called out to Ichigo.

“My my... your friend certainly is a wet blanket, isn't he?”

From close by, head thrown as far back as the bones in his neck would allow, Ichigo had forgotten about taking his turn (actually Grimmjow had too) and was searching the arena ceiling for enough patience to make it through this ordeal. So far, so terrible. Listening to the two of them go at it was proving to be painful.

He straightened and watched with concern when Urahara's taunting provoked a snarl more savage than usual, and Grimmjow's entire demeanour virtually announced that he was going to let the man have it. Verbally of course, Ichigo hoped. Though with the amount of teeth showing, Grimmjow getting physical was not off the table.

Ichigo slid quickly over to him and threw a single, sharp knuckled jab into the enforcer's shoulder. Grimmjow turned towards him, biting down on his temper with appreciable effort as he met Ichigo's hard amber eyes.

“Don't let him goad you.” The warning was a little late.

“M'not!” Grimmjow's denial, which was embarrassingly close to a whine, was an obvious lie. “This fucker is just wasting my time!” There was a very precise tick thrumming away at the corner of one of his irate azure eyes, counting down the milliseconds of indecision before the enforcer seemed to come to one, pulling away and starting towards the rink's entrance. Ichigo made a grinding noise in his throat, and propelled after him, pushing to catch up.

“It's what he does,” he snapped. Grimmjow's head whipped around like an angry owl.

“Thanks, captain obvious!”

“No, you brick!” And if there was just the slightest hint of desperation edging into his angry voice, “He pushes you. Makes you think,” Grimmjow didn't care. And he didn't slow or look back. He was well verse in hockey trash talk, skin thick from years of taking it and dishing it out hard, probably harder than most. But he was here on Ichigo's promise that he was going to have some sort of life altering training session with Ichigo's old coach, not get chirped at like a useless bender and made to feel acutely stupid. Grimmjow had come into this scenario with at least some expectations...

“Makes you think,” Grimmjow scoffed. “Messes with yer fuckin' head 's more like.”

Ichigo powered forward till the two of them were neck and neck.

And if unenthusiastic hand jobs had a face...

“Yes. He's even better at being an asshole than you. That must kill you.”

Grimmjow gave a sour snort at just how close Ichigo might have come to it, but remained set on his course.

“But he can help. You'll see.” Ichigo curved out in front of the enforcer and slowed them both, his glove pressed firmly into Grimmjow's chest. “Trust me, Grimmjow. It will be worth it.” Brown eyes were filled with enough deep seated conviction that Grimmjow felt his temper drop a gear and all but stall. “Yeah, okay, he'll piss you off. So, fucking deal with it.” Ichigo punctuated his bossy ass remark with a small shove for good measure.

Looking down on Ichigo from so very close, Grimmjow allowed himself to be physically slowed, then stopped, considering Ichigo's hard but sincere expression. Aware of the hand against his chest in his periphery. Equally aware that his determined eyes were suddenly not so easy to look at. His stomach stuttered uncomfortably and he growled out a breath and looked away. He didn't feel like leaving so much anymore, like he might miss something if he did. What was he gonna do anyway? Wait in the locker room and call a cab?

“And I bet one day I'm gonna look back on this and laugh, eh?” he grumbled. “You fuckin' owe me.”

He heard Ichigo's quiet laugh.

X X X

They took a quick break.

Elbows out and head resting on his wrists, Grimmjow was slouched forward against the boards in the player's bench, the position allowing a deep stretching of his back and shoulders while giving his body a chance to rest and recharge. But the man down the bench – noticeably parked just out of his reach - was still keeping his mind as busy as ever.

The guy was next level.

He turned his head to the side to study him.

“How come you ain't playing?”

“Who, me?” Urahara let out a shrill-to-the-ears and long winded howl, the very nature of the sound offensive to Grimmjow in every imaginable way. “Oooooh! With my back the way it is? I couldn't possibly!” Grimmjow's back teeth gritted against each other.

“Yer back looks fine to me.”

“You're too kind Grim-san!” Grimmjow sat up and eyed him further.

“Grim-san?” he muttered to himself, the slightest twitch around one eye. He'd been calling him that all morning. And he didn't like it.

“But I'm not as young and spry as I look,” Urahara continued, head tipping towards him as if to share his secrets. “I am in my late 30's, you know.”

Grimmjow just stared back at him.

“You look fifty five.”

“Aww.” Grimmjow ignored the whine. He was too interested in getting some answers.

“Why aren't you playing?” He certainly didn't mean to give the guy a compliment, of any kind, but common. His moves were just too unreal.

Urahara looked out over the rink, eyes growing more thoughtful.

“Ah, yes, well, because I feel my place is here. My ikigai is but to impart my knowledge, and to steer the young and the sometimes troubled towards their true calling.” Grimmjow didn't miss the subtlety in his voice and the way his eyes flicked beyond him, that the last part was directed, not at just him, but specifically at Kurosaki. He made a mental note of it, but he had bigger fish to fry right now. Like the word Urahara had used which sounded like another one of his weird foreign words.

“Icky... guy?” he grumbled.

“Yes.” Urahara smiled politely. “Ikigai is one's reason for being.”

“So, teaching hockey is yer reason for being.” He raised a hand, waving it without lifting his wrist. “Like... yer calling.”

“You could say that. And you would be right.”

“Right,” he grumbled, rising from the bench, taking his cue from Ichigo. “So, if you're the fucking messiah of hockey coaches,” he sidestepped along the tight space in front of the bench and slammed the little door closed behind him, Urahara still comfortably perched on his seat as he turned to face him again, “then how come the whole goddamn Reaper's farm team isn't in the NHL?”

“Well that's rather obvious, I'm afraid.” The coach looked past Grimmjow to Ichigo, as if he were sharing with him his sadness for one who could possess such a glacial and rudimentary grasp of the situation; that only a few players could ever be called up at a time. And that clearly not everyone possessed the potential to get that far.

The side of Grimmjow's jaw twitched. He was doing this for Ichigo. He was keeping calm for Ichigo. Because Ichigo was doing this for him. He was doing this...

Piercing blue eyes trained on the coach, lip lifting at one corner.

“En-fuckin-lighten me then.”

Urahara gave a solemn, sideways bow.

“I will try.”

And Grimmjow physically held himself back.

“Because it isn't merely a matter of passing on a particular set of skills. It's more a problem of tapping into them by challenging those who possess an inherent ability. I challenge them to reach inward. Those people, like you two boys, are born with a natural talent that just needs to be unlocked by the right person.”

“An' yer the right person,” Grimmjow drawled. Urahara gestured with a nod that was almost a bow.

“So, it would seem.”

“Hn. So you go trippin' head games with guys here on the practice rink and you make'em think they're ready for the NHL and aren't gonna fall on their faces? So, what happened to yer little star then, eh?” Grimmjow grunted, chin wagging towards Ichigo. No offence intended.

Ichigo raised an irritated eyebrow, but otherwise remained silent, detached, like some trained working dog waiting for his master's next command.  
“Why, you have, of course.”

Grimmjow drew himself up, suddenly all systems alert, curiosity triggering an eyebrow of his own. The man was finally saying something that interested him. His attention skipped naturally from Urahara to Ichigo, just in time to see Ichigo react. And maybe he was off base but Ichigo seemed to freeze up, going from focused and attentive to quietly uncomfortable. He stared for just a moment - it was almost painful watching him try to hide it – before he responded to their coach.

“You saying 'cuz we don't get along, Ichigo can't play?” He said it as if nothing had changed between the two of them. “Pfft. Well, fuck me. Thanks for the insight, but we already got that one figured out and under control.” That was a half a lie. It was as yet an untested theory. They still didn't know if they could play together. “Aren't you supposed to be telling me something I don't already know?”

“Ah, yes, of course,” Urahara agreed. And so, without preamble, he did. “You can only go so far with athletic ability and intensity. The rest is here.” The coach rapped his goalie glove lightly against his chest. “But I fear the extra weight you're carrying is congesting your heart.”

Grimmjow grunted, mock offence darkening the scowl on his face. If Urahara could do it, so could he. He leaned into Ichigo, voice gravelly in Ichigo's ear.

“Did he just call me fat?”

“Shhh. No,” Ichigo hissed, the sharp corner of his elbow nudging Grimmjow hard in bicept for being a wise ass. Azure eyes stayed lit with insulted pride.

“I'm big boned,” he complained loudly, nudging Ichigo back, naturally twice as hard, his growl matched a second later by Ichigo's. They traded several more blows, each increasing in speed and strength until they were both actually panting a little.

Urahara watched quietly, smile indulgent, until the two young men finally seemed to realize as one that the real threat in the room wasn't coming from either of them. He waited a moment longer while they retrained their angry features onto him, both men trying to act like they weren't favoring the deep aches in their shoulders and chests that their mutual lack of restraint had brought on.

“Perhaps we should continue where we left off,” Urahara said thoughtfully, an odd quality tinging the pleasantness in his voice.

X X X

Break accomplished, coach and student were back at their positions, locked once again in a stubborn sort of combat, their short talk having no particular noticeable affect on the enforcer's puck handing skills thus far, as shot after shot failed to make it past the invisible barrier that Urahara seemed to have conjured. As expected by now, the shots from Urahara came just as fast and as hard as the enforcer's. Chirpy, cheap, and fast.

“Come now.” The puck snagged up high in his glove.

“That one was so close.” It bounced off his goal pad.

“The tension is mounting.” He caught it between bend knees.

“My defense is riddled with holes. Shall I point them out for you?” He batted it away with his stick.

“Do you even want to put the puck in the net?” A sniper like slap shot shot followed.

“I wonder, if you score, will it not be deserved?” The next puck had a wobble to it as it skipped across the frozen arena floor.

“Perhaps, the only thing you really want.... is to erase that one big mistake.” Blades showered mist into his face as the puck was jabbed at harshly between his legs. The violence only ended when he caught it fast. A very angry bluenet looped away from the net and found another piece of ammunition, migrating out further before curving back in for yet another strafing run. Relentless.

“It must be exhausting, spinning that truth into something you can live with.”

The puck stopped dead in the air. Inches in front of the delicate adam's apple of Urahara Kisuke's throat. Trapped safely by his glove before it could do any damage. Even with the throat guard. It had been shot from low down, it's rising trajectory aimed to tuck under the plastic protector that covered Urahara's neck.

He expelled a little breath. That would have been a stinger.

“Ah. So, you can put the puck where you want it go, when you want to.”

The enforcer was still, out there on the ice, staring him down in blistering silence from a distance, not sorry at all for how close that had been.

Urahara gave him a salty smile.

“Now perhaps, you are ready to listen.”

X X X

Grimmjow stood on the ice, a simmering volcano while Urahara gave another speech. He was wary now, convinced that Urahara either knew things he shouldn't know about, or else he was just throwing dynamite in the water to see what would float to the surface. Either way, he was hella adept at it. And despite Grimmjow's earlier promise to Ichigo to see this through, he was only hanging on by a thread.

“How long have you been ignoring your instinct, Grimmjow?”

“Ignoring my...? The fuck you on about?”

“When you were about to shoot... Did you think I was going to go down? Did you think I might hug the corner?”

Grimmjow's glare said get to the fucking point. He did.

“Your emotions are blinding you. They are muddied with dark thoughts and self doubt. But you, Grimmjow are a deeply instinctual creature.”

Grimmjow couldn't argue that. He was.

“What's yer point?”

“Quit fighting demons, and let your instincts guide you. That. Is my point.”

“I aint' fighting'em.” his mouth snapped, before his brain even realized it had.

“Ah,” crooned Urahara. “So, you do have demons.”

“Me an' my demons are fuckin' fine.” He didn't deny their existence, knowing it was pointless to do so. That was as much as he was willing to concede but apparenty it wasn't enough.

“Bullshit.” Urahara's reply was quick and calm, but the slight smile that had been there was now gone. “Your stick and your body language speak only to me of absurd fear.”

“I ain't afraid a' shit,” Grimmjow rolled his shoulders as he stepped forward. That was the second time he'd accused him of that and it was starting to become a sore point.

“Untrue. You are afraid of failure.” Urahara's head dropped slightly, eyes cast into the shadow of his mask as he spoke. “Afraid of already having failed.”

The growl that caught on an inhale of breath could be heard clearly amongst the three of them in the quiet arena.

Grimmjow didn't even realize it was his own until he caught Ichigo giving him a particular expression, one that made Grimmjow feel like he wanted to claw together his private thoughts, like a bag of marbles loosed, and shove them far away out of sight.  
“Projecting much?” Grimmjow sneered. “Don't remember seein' you in the NHL when I was growin' up... Mr. minors coach.”

But Urahara was not one to become entangled in his own conversation. He directed it where he intended it to go. He hummed a moment.

“The secret to a steady hand,” Uarhara continued serenely, “is a steady heart. I can tell just by looking at you, Grimmjow, that yours is in chaos. And because of that, your instincts will inevitably suffer.”

Grimmjow cocked his head to the side, one eye narrowing in contempt, a red herring for the discomfort that was rising like bile in his throat.

“So, what you're saying is I'm off my game,” he deadpanned. With a dismissive snort, he suddenly turned away, again. “Well, thanks for the advice. It's been real enlightening.” He waved them both off, slinging his stick over his shoulder and directing his next statement at his partner as he left him behind.

“Sorry, Ichigo. S'been fun, but I got shit to do.”

He skated away, again... to the sound of the oranget sighing out a long and hard sound of annoyance behind him.

Urahara remained unfazed, his ice cream voice rising high enough to reach the enforcer's ears.

“You want it explained in terms which are simpler than the universe is,” he said mildly.

Grimmjow threw another narrowed look of complete disdain at him from over his shoulder, his response to push off even harder towards the arena door. He didn't even understand what in the fuck the guy had just said to him, and he'd lost interest in playing the man's games.

Urahara's voice followed him like shadows after the sun; the further away he got, the more that voice seemed to reach.

“Your real problem, Grimmjow-san, is that I can read you as easily as I can the numbers on your shirt. That fact remains, whether you run away or not.”

The long end of Ichigo's sigh turned into a spiritless groan. Yup. That oughtta do it.

The enforcer ground to a halt, blades shearing the ice. His head whipped around first, the rest of his body following on its own.

“That's it,” he growled.

“Grim...” Ichigo warned. He wouldn't. Of course he wouldn't. But just in case.

Ichigo moved to intercept his path and his arm hurried out, a piece of loose jersey catching between gloved fingers; snagged. Muscles thrumming against Grimmjow's raw strength, still shocking to him even now, Ichigo was doubtful he could stop him if he really decided to go for it. He could tell by that brittle tone that Grimmjow's deep well of humor had run bone dry. Giving Urahara a head start was his best hope.

Grimmjow felt the pull, but made no move to shrug Ichigo off. All of his attention, dangerous as it was, was on Urahara.

“Every time you shoot, you give yourself away,” he stated, as serene as you please.

Grimmjow's brows dropped sharply, like knives, sharp edges holding a tightly packed meeting in the ruffled bridge of his nose.

“Do I now?” he ground out, body and mind still locked in one spot, emotions still being wrenched in two different directions, between curiosity and loathing, between Ichigo's arm, where he'd stopped, and the exit.

“Before the goalie has even shown you all of his openings, you've already made up your mind. You must clear your mind of all extraneous thoughts, feel the goalie, know his weakness, then strike.”

“Maybe you should go sit on a fucking mountain top.” Urahara just ignored the tantrumming enforcer, his skin thicker and wiser and able to weather any storm that the stubborn young male could produce.

“You are an instinctual man, Grimmjow. Predatory in nature.”

“Hn.” The sound was a harsh affirmation. A deeply suitable threat buried inside it. Not that it had any effect on the coach.

“I've watched you play, and I see it in every other aspect of your game. As I suspect it is in your personal life as well.” There was a pause as Grimmjow gave away a telling flinch. “You must let your instincts guide your shots in the same way. Yours are dulled by your emotions.”

“Me and my instincts are fuckin' fine too.” The voice this time that replied was gruff, but calmer, more matter of fact.

“I've seen sharper instincts in my peewee players.” Just as matter of fact. The effect though, was instantaneous. Coach or no, two hundred pounds of agitated enforcer was up in front of the coach like they were about to dance.

“Th'fuck did you just say?” Muscles along a sharp jawline flexed as even sharper teeth lined up and ground together.

“Unlike your instincts, I know your hearing is sharp enough that I don't need to repeat myself.”

The fabric of Grimmjow's jersey stretched to near breaking point where it was being pulled by Ichigo's hand. Grimmjow's eyes were wild. Though his body remained mostly fixed to his island of ice, for one horrible moment, he looked like he was about to launch himself at their coach.

Their standoff continued for several long seconds, before Grimmjow's lethal expression twisted and he practically spat his thoughts at the ice.

“This is a load a' horse shit!” he snarled, teeth nearly meeting Urahara's caged mask.

Ichigo finally found his voice.

“Grimmj-”

“No, Ichigo,” Urahara said pleasantly, “This is up to Grimmjow,” even as the bluenet snorted heated air against his mask like an enraged bull and twisted away in an embattled effort to leave yet again. “You cannot teach a man what he thinks he already knows.”

Grimmjow's entire body went rigid, and he turned slowly, bringing into view a dangerous curl of his lip, and sharp fangs that glinted under the arena's bright lights. The expression on his face said he'd had about enough of squaring off with Urahara. And as Ichigo knew, that usually meant trouble.  
Not a single thing in the empty arena dared move. The air between them nearly blistering from the enforcer's intensity. Remember what Ichigo had said before? Well, now Ichigo just hoped Grimmjow wasn't contemplating Urahara's swift demise, that he was instead coming to some sort of conclusion that wouldn't involve violence, or charges.

“You're on, old man.” Grimmjow's challenge was a low rumbled, punctuated by heart-stoppingly dangerous grin.

And just like that, the tension popped. Ichigo sighed. He had heard that tone before.

Urahara beamed and raised one arm in the air, glove coming up to his mouth.

“Maestro!” he called out. And in a moment they all looked up as the speakers of the arena came alive.

“I've no doubt that you can beat me, if you decide to, Grimmjow-samma.”

X X X

**Yin Yang by USS**

Grimmjow took a slow centring breath, eyes sharp and vision clear.

This moment was between him and the net. Nothing and no one else. Just them and the rink.

It took effort to clear his mind of the background noise. The whispers. The insecurities. The doubts. They started up. He shut them down.

No teams. No games. No thoughts. Just instinct. Just skill.

The pucks were all gathered and waiting back at centre ice. Ichigo was the only opponent between him and Urahara.

A nuisance to navigate. Nothing more.

He took a few quick easy shots, letting them find their own way, watching the goalie's movements, letting him show him his weaknesses.

He was not the hunted. He was the hunter.

**All I all I all I really really really wanna say**   
**Is what the fuck today**

A shot was grabbed in the goalie's wide gloves.

**All I all I all I really really really wanna do**   
**Is grind up next to you**

Another bounced off the goalie's knee pad.

**All evergreen, no histamine**   
**All I all I all I really really really wanna do**   
**Is zag along with you**

The next one skimmed between the goal post and his leg.

**I got infinite ammunition**   
**Coming out the yin yang**

And the next rocketed over his shoulder.

**I got limitless stealth positions**   
**Extract the champion**

  
“Call tripple A,” Ichigo wheezed.

“I am tripple A.” Grimmjow's rough voice hovered like a cement truck above him while Ichigo rolled onto his side, trying to push himself up. He'd been ground into the boards in one of Grimmjow's rushes. He slouched, and a strong bare hand hoisted him up with an ease that was hard to believe, his shoulder jolting in its socket.

Grimmjow was having fun. He was like and excitable 220 pound puppy. And Ichigo wasn't sure he was going to survive it.

“Sorry 'bout that.”

Ichigo steadied against the boards, and Grimmjow clapped him on the back, voice low and honest. It wasn't the first time he'd ever apologized to anyone on the ice, but it held the most sincere affection Ichigo had ever heard from him. It sent a small quake through the oranget that he could have passed off to himself as pain.

There was no grudge to be held this time. Casualties of the game happened. And Grimmjow's armor was a bit thicker than most, so when he was throwing his weight around in the heat of the moment, it wasn't uncommon for his teammates to get caught under his tires.

And Grimmjow definitely left his tread marks.

X X X

“You gonna sit there bleedin' orange, or are you gonna get up?” Grimmjow popped his hand out of his glove and offered it. Grimmjow had knocked him down.

Ichigo was looking up at him with a very strange expression. And it made Grimmjow tilt his head. He wasn't just smiling. He was full out grinning, his eyes sparkling with an emotion that Grimmjow had never seen directed at him before from the oranget. It took him a moment to figure out just what exactly that look was. When he did, he felt his mouth open and his throat tighten. And something in his chest moved awkwardly.

It was pride. Ichigo was looking at him like he meant something. Like Grimmjow's success really fucking mattered to him. Like Grimmjow mattered.

His face felt warm.

Grimmjow turned away quickly. A smile, one he couldn't seem to hold back, threatening to split his cool facade into pieces.

X X X

Grimmjow glided over to their bench panting for breath. He feigned thirst, but it was oxygen that was currently top of his list of needs. Urahara hadn't run him into the ground, but he was coming fucking close.

Unbelievable. A few hours with this character and Grimmjow had gained a small insight into his puck handling and shooting skills that neither his previous nor current coach had been able to offer. Ichigo's old coach seemed to read him and pinpoint his weakness like it was obvious to any idiot on the street.

And if it weren't for the fact that it was working so well, Grimmjow would find it exceedingly creepy. After several hours, with a few breaks in between at Ichigo's pointed lecturing that Grimmjow needed to sit his ass down for a minute, Grimmjow had managed to improve his scoring on Urahara from absolute zero to a solid best of five.

Just over half of his shots going in on average was unarguably better, but Grimmjow had groused without any whiff of shame whatsoever that it still wasn't good enough. It was only under Ichigo's insistence and Urahara's claim that it was, in fact, quite remarkable that somehow, Grimmjow became inclined to believe them.

X X X

The bluenet leaned against the sideboards and lifted a full green energy bottle to his lips. Sweat was riding its way, in warm and narrow paths, down his temples, leaving an irritating itch in its cooling wake. He'd downed just a few shots of tepid liquid when Urahara's voice hummed to life beside him. Grimmjow nearly jumped at the sound; the man like a freighter sized bumble bee buzzing by out of nowhere.

“Grimmjow, if I might make an observation.” He jerked around to look at him, eyes widened, then narrowed, wondering how he'd, not once, but several times today, lost track of the man in a mostly empty rink.

“Knowing you, you will,” he grunted, lifting the bottle up and tipping it back for another go at its contents.

“It strikes me, that you two have a pretty complicated relationship.”

The water bottle stopped mid-arch. His throat suddenly too tight for casual consumption.

“What?” his mouth asked before his mind caught up, and he immediately regretted the reflex.

Relationship. Grimmjow wanted to hiss at the word. Like a scared cat. And at the jumpy feeling that came with it; how the back of his brain just tingled in confusion and excitement out of absolutely nowhere.

His throat wasn't the only thing throwing a fit. Concern also flared in his gut over what it might make Ichigo feel. And this was new. Because he really hadn't ever given any consideration over whether or not Ichigo struck him as a guy who might just turtle when faced with deeply personal shit like... well, whatever shit theirs was.

“If you want something, Grimmjow, though it may burn, you must not be afraid to grasp it.”

“Hn.” he replied, and figured he'd said more than he wanted to.

“You've suffered a great loss, I know,” Urahara nodded. “And you haven't been able to score your goals because you haven't wanted to. Your heart is clogged with so much fear and confusion, that you cannot hear its call.”

Azure eyes flitted between the blurry nib of the bottle he held and the man beside him, before retreating back.

Fear. It was the weakest of emotions. Grimmjow despised it. Anger though...

“How many times I gotta tell you till you get it through your fucking head? I ain't fuckin' afraid...,” he snarled back. The third time was not a charm.

Urahara ignored him, even as Grimmjow's pride seethed at the insult.


	33. Chapter 33

The office of one honest, handsome, humble, and sometimes perverted coach, Urahara Kisuke, was a bit of a tip. A tall jagged pile of paperwork, which sat to one side of his large office desk, had started to develop a mean disposition. He'd been meaning to get to it. Rather, he'd meant to have his assistants take care of it. That was, after all, what he'd hired them to do.  
  
He pulled the drawer to his desk open and watched as the slanted skyscraper of paperwork teetered like jelly. He smiled. Just about ready.

A computer screen bathed one side of the desk in a black and white glow. He glanced again at the small article; the blurb about a hockey player who had lost a parent. Just over a year ago now, only a month before Christmas. There were no details. The passing of Urahara's former acquaintance had been kept close to home. Urahara was sorry he hadn't been able to attend the funeral. Though he didn't know him well, he knew he'd been a loving father, and a kind and generous man. His small but frequent donations to his local hockey club, regardless of the team his own son played for, had not gone unnoticed.

His thoughts turned to his desk drawer. And the young man he'd met today.

What a challenge. Not for him. But for the young man himself.

Now _there_ was a kid who needed to get out of his own way.

Urahara reached deep into the drawer, fingers searching along the back for the knick-knack he sought. His eyes lit up as the feel of smooth wood slid along his fingertips. He retracted his arm, nearly up to its elbow inside the deep drawer, and placed a small wooden box down on the desk. A puzzle box. Japanese to be precise.  
  
He shut the drawer and picked it up, hands beginning to work the movable slats of wood in various directions. He knew it from memory, knew how to move the slats in proper sequence. But the motion of his fingers, like a spider spinning its web, it brought a certain weightlessness to his thoughts.

And it always helped him to center himself.

A final click; the reward from a long practiced ritual, and one side of the box slid open. He held the box to his nose in both hands and took his time inhaling its dark, skunky fragrance. It smelled to him like the vast northern country he called his home.

He reached for the mouse by his keyboard. And a moment later, the smooth tropical sound of Bob Marley's _Jammin'_ diffused through the room, teasing the soul like a warm island breeze. He leaned well back into his well cushioned chair and tugged the rim of his favorite striped hat down over his eyes.  
  
Mmmm. That was the shit.

 **X X X**  
  
Grimmjow was systematically eroding Ichigo's mental well being.  
  
It was one thing to ignore those few touches, the occasional innuendos, and even the slew of off color sexual remarks that came part and parcel with knowing Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez. It was a horse of an entirely different color, however, to have to endure being naked and alone with him in the shower.  
  
Yes. Naked. Together. In the shower.  
  
Ichigo's private wet dreams suddenly seemed like a nightmare.

**X X X**

  
They clattered into the dressing room in comfortable silence, one behind the other. No antics in the doorway this time. They were both too spent for that.

Grimmjow tromped to the bench across the way and sat, heavy body dropping onto the hard wood like a bag of sand. He made a pained noise, somewhere between a grunt and a moan. He ached. And he was tired. It was the kind of body tired that meant you'd done something worthwhile. But the sooner he showered and got home to relax, the better. He wasted no time and hauled up his hockey bag to retrieve his street clothes, which he laid out on the bench, as well as a bar of soap, shampoo and conditioner, and a towel.  
  
Ichigo heard the heavy plastic thump of full bottles on the bench and stopped what he was doing, hand forgotten amongst the street clothes he'd been reaching for inside his own hockey bag.

Shower?  
  
Shower. Shit. Shit. Shit.

They both smelled pretty... gnarly. An _aromatic_ mix of greasy sweat, humid B.O., hot tired leather, and growing bacteria. It was funny in a way. Most players had a certain fondness for the smell of their hockey gear. But also a matching fondness for _clean_ gear that didn't threaten to consume the very space it dwelled in, like some hungry black hole. Dirty gear, especially left in a warm hockey bag, harbored dangerous bacteria. It was a perfect breeding ground. And a cut during a game wearing improperly washed gear could easily make a player dangerously ill.  
  
Hockey smell was part of the game. So were nice hot showers.  
  
And Ichigo hadn't even given a thought to what they were going to do after their practice.  
  
Shit to infinity.  
  
Waiting to go home and shower would mean a very rich smelling car ride. And in his new car. Not a good thing at all. But showering here would mean seeing Grimmjow naked and soapy, and though a small un-suppressible part of him cheered at the thought, Ichigo had always avoided being in the showers at the same time as the enforcer. Not that it meant he didn't get to see him parade around the locker room daily in his sunday best, dick out and half hard in front of them all most of the time.  
  
Showering at the same time. It wasn't _that_ big a deal really, just something he'd prefer to avoid. But _how_ had he not thought about showering?  
  
Okay. Then Ichigo would just be quick, in and out. And subtle, maybe allow Grimmjow to shower first. Maybe pretend to stretch his tired muscles out for a bit. Yeah, that would probably work.  
  
Good then. He had a plan. He just needed Grimmjow to cooperate and head for the showers, like he seemed to be about to do. Good.  
  
Ichigo finished stripping his outer gear; helmet, skates, socks, pads. Slowly. Eyes trailing across the floor on the down low to update himself on Grimmjow's status along the way. Ichigo was down to his work-out pants and shirt when Grimmjow finally dropped his drawers and picked up his towel.  
  
Good. He turned away, pretending to look for something in his bag to kill more time. He heard the flip flip flip of the flip-flops Grimmjow regularly wore in the showers. He was fastidious that way. It was followed by the sound of water.  
  
Just a couple of minutes would be enough. Ichigo felt a small relief.  
  
His plan was work-  
  
A blur of darkness fell across his vision, and for a split second, Ichigo thought the lights in the locker room must have gone out. The moment of confusion collapsed into cold **dread** as the shadow passed him by and something tightened around his body. Something soft.  
  
Grimmjow had him in a linen style bear hug, dark plush towel twisted and wrapped around him, keeping his arms locked at his sides and fists out of reach.  
  
“Oy!? Grimmjow?!” he protested. “What are you-? Get off me!” A thundery rumble _right_ behind his head sent sparks skidding up and down his skin along his spine.  
  
“Uh Uhhhh. _You_ stepped on the logo.” Ichigo blinked before his eyes went wide and angry.  
  
“What?” he sputtered. “No, I didn't! When?!” He twisted his shoulders, one way, then the other, trying to loosen his restraints. “You're crazy!”  
  
“Hah! Did too,” Grimmjow simpered behind him, voice running into a gravelly purr he could _feel_ just behind his ear. “And I betchyou thought I didn't see you do it, eh? You sneaky minx.”  
  
Ichigo swore at that. He'd been caught but good. He _had_ stepped on the logo when they'd arrived. He wasn't often a liar, so denying it further wasn't an option. Fighting on the other hand, was. He was actually quite adept at hand to hand, as Grimmjow had learned. But Grimmjow had taken pretty good care of that too with his towel, turning Ichigo into a human burrito. He redoubled his efforts to pull free.   
  
The enforcer hardly needed to with the size difference between them, but Grimmjow planted his size elevens and clamped down harder. Ichigo was caught fast.  
  
They struggled in their strange embrace for a moment longer before he craned his head around to negotiate with his captor. ****  
  
“Grim, no one saw it.” Grim. A reminder that they were pals. A cheap ploy to appeal to the other. He was reduced to begging. How pathetic. “Can't you just... this once... just please let it go?” He hated begging.  
  
“I saw it,” Grimmjow crooned. “It's the rule.” He leaned a little closer. “And imma enforce it.” Ichigo could hear the satisfied grin in his voice. “It's what I do.”  
  
That was _that_ then. He didn't know exactly what Grimmjow was planning, but he had one obvious idea. Ichigo exploded into action, wriggling and kicking back and making the bastard _work_ for it.

“That's only when you're on the ice, _you nut bag_!”

He could feel Grimmjow's laugh, the vibrations from his chest against his back, warm and deep, even through the thick towel between them.  
  
“Grimmjow,” he warned the playful enforcer. He felt his feet leaving the ground, toes scrambling to clutch at the floor to gain purchase again. He'd given up on being tactful, going instead for Grimmjow's sense of pride.

“Ahh! You stink! Lemme go!” But apparently, Grimmjow had none and Ichigo had forgotten that.  
  
“What can I say?” Grimmjow grinned against the back of Ichigo's head as he reached further around, hands plunging down and wrapping around Ichigo's hips to gain more leverage. “You've reduced me to a stinky happy sweaty ball of playfulness.”

“No! You're just an asshole! After everything I did for you!” Ichigo wailed as he was hoisted the rest of the way off his feet and carried to the waiting showers in his tshirt and black workout pants.

“Well look at it this way.” Grimmjow might have tipped his head in contemplation if he wasn't carrying a squirming armful of angry Ichigo. “I'm paying you back for today with a trip to the spa.”

 ****  
X X X  
  
  
At least they were black.

They clung to his skin like glue, everything underneath modified and magnified, tight wet material like fast groping hands against his skin. On reflex, he caught the bar of soap that Grimmjow tossed at him.

“Here.”  
  
Ichigo muttered something underneath his breath, but only scowled and turned away. There was no point in fighting about it now. He was wet and stuck. He peeled his black workout pants down, palming the wall for balance as he struggled to roll the sodden pants past his ankles. He tossed them to the side, and they collapsed in a dark, wet lump where they landed with a squelch.

He wet his hair first, tipping his head forward, using the soap Grimmjow had tossed him. It would do. No way in hell was he asking to borrow Grimmjow's shampoo. That would involve talking, and maybe looking...

The water turned hot, the air around them muggy. He held his face outside the spray as he lathered his body and underarms. The water ran down over his chest, spray splashing little water bombs around him. The noise was a welcome barrier between them; the echo of water slapping the tiles of the shower floor in an offbeat patter.  
  
Grimmjow was buck naked and wet. So was he.  
  
He reminded himself for the fifth time that nudity was just part of locker room life.  
  
But it had never been just the two of them. Now he had to keep up appearances. Act normal. Think normal. Don't think about Grimmjow being naked.  
  
Great. Now he was thinking about Grimmjow being naked.  
  
Being naked in the same shower as Grimmjow fucking Jeagerjaquez was perfectly fine. Staring at his body, however... Ichigo would have to keep an eye on that. So to speak. But thoughts turned to action, as they tended to do, and he glanced sideways, incidental as he scruffed more soap through his hair. He flinched, a little gasp of air pulling some water in with it. Making him cough.  
  
He looked over _again_ at the sound of Grimmjow's query.

“You say somethin'?” He was facing him fully. Full frontal. Streams of soap still trailing like hot fingers down his chest, suds pooling in a white froth at the broad base of his...

“No,” he snapped.

No. No eyes on _that_. And not on his full wet lips or his drenched hair either, its fierceness and form washed down and smoothed back by the onslaught of water.  
  
Eyes on the floor.

 

**X X X**

 

Men checked out other men, from their cuff links to their junk. There wasn't anything unusual about taking interest in another man's body, even his dick. Hell, it was nothing to compare your dick with another guy's in their world. But the way Ichigo was making obvious efforts to keep from looking anywhere near Grimmjow... like he was forcing himself not to look. Well, it didn't seem normal. It didn't seem polite. Did he have some kinda problem with Grimmjow's dick? Maybe he was jealous and intimidate. Heh.  
  
Grimmjow tilted his head forward to get a real good view while Ichigo had his head in the spray.  
  
Hn, he thought, reaching for the conditioner and squeezing a load of white slippery liquid into his palm, oddly aroused by the sight of it. Familiar. He'd been caught out of tissues the other night, and so desperate to cum that he'd resorted to cupping his hand over the head of dick as he came. And the perfectly formed ass he'd been getting off to at the last possible moment, the visual that flooded his mind in that last desperate push for orgasm, was standing next to him.  
  
He rubbed the product through his hair, not concerned, but enjoying the warm pulse it had sent down into his dick.  
  
 **X X X**

He ducked his head back under the water and closed defiant eyes. He jerked when something thumped against the side of his foot. Ichigo wiped his eyes free of the remnants of soap and water and looked down. A shampoo bottle.

His body and brain seemed to be at war, once fighting as kin, now traitors on two separate sides. And once again, without thinking, he looked over at the enforcer.

The water sluiced across the smooth, extensive terrain of well defined sections of muscles. The man attached to them was back to lathering and rinsing, blithely unaware as he lifted one arm and rubbed conditioner suds up his side and across his armpit.

For softness? Ichigo snorted. Primadonna. But it reminded Ichigo that they both smelled; a complicated mix of body heat and greasy sweat, cold arena air and damp skin. They stunk. Except that Grimmjow didn't really. Ichigo had gotten a nose-full of him while being bear hugged across the room and dumped into the waiting showers. And that too was causing nothing but problems for Ichigo. Underneath the pungence, Grimmjow _stunk_ in a way that hit the back of Ichigo's throat and sent electricity blazing a trail down down through his gut.

Grimmjow looked up, and Ichigo's eyes snapped down. ****  
  
Eyes down. Always down.  
  
Eyes on the... arousal... that was beginning to stir. He felt a jolt of panic, and then, as if its simple design was but to mock him, it _jumped_.  
  
His stomach lurched. _Please don't do this. Please don't do this_  
  
He begged it. Actually entered negotiations with his dick.  
  
Normally, he had control. _This_ wasn't _him_. He never had a problem in public with blood rushing there. He did _not_ have issues with random erections.  
  
But random cases of a naked hot guy that he found physically if not mentally attractive... sopping wet and rippling and frosted in soap suds in front of him... _That_ , he clearly had issues with.

 

**X X X  
**

Jesus and fuck and everything in between. He'd seen what Kurosaki kept in the stables. But he'd never seen it... _move_... on it's own before. It looked like his _little_ Ichi was coming alive right here in the showers.  
  
Well, god damn, Grimmjow could have blushed with the compliment, and lounged around about it, warm and content as he was under his own hot shower. It wasn't for _him_ of course, and he knew it. But Ichigo didn't have to know that. He grinned ear to ear behind a screen of water before he schooled his expression into something just a little offended, but not overly excited. But he was excited. Oh yeah. He couldn't _not_ jump all over this. If just to see Ichigo squirm.  
  
 **“** Hope you got a hot date for that,” he offered conversationally.  
  
“What?” Ichigo's wet, concentrated scowl snapped toward him, dial stuck vaguely between suspicion and confusion. A little hope too. And yeah, Grimmjow could see the precise moment when that hope was extinguished, the moment when the oranget caught his _gist_. He looked to stop breathing as his open mouth jerked shut in some hopeless, knee jerk protective measure.  
  
And then he twisted away, giving Grimmjow a nice angled view of his perfect little ass. And as far as men's asses went, well, there really was no arguing over it. Of all the naked jock butts he'd ever seen, it was no contest. Ichigo had it signed, sealed and delivered. It was no wonder Grimmjow had started to imagine fucking into that thing. He was an anal addict already, and Ichigo's ass, so perfectly round, lean and hard, was just icing to all the cake he'd had. Hell, Grimmjow wondered what it'd be like to watch Ichigo fuck, see that thing working. Too bad Grimmjow never went to _those_ kinds of hockey parties. But he'd make an exception for Ichigo.  
  
Grimmjow let his head tilt to better study what he could see of the back, and yes, to Ichigo's credit, _still_ the front.  
  
Hell, he had problems, didn't he. Heh.  
  
No matter how much Ichigo turned his hips, that half hard and well formed appendage was like the sunrise peaking over the hills.  
  
“Relax, Kurosaki,” he crooned. He just wouldn't be satisfied until Ichigo looked like he was going to murder him in cold blood. “Nothing to be ashamed of.” He craned forward and quirked an eyebrow to drive his point home. “From what I can see.”  
  
Ichigo popped like a soap bubble.  
  
“Your brain is put together wrong! And Goddammit, stop _looking!”_ He twisted away, cheeks pinking even more as he hissed over his shoulder. _“_ Or I'll tell the team what a pervert you _really are!_ ”  
  
It was all Grimmjow could do not to outright laugh. He preferred to play it cool, leaning a little into the wide empty shower space that separated the two of them with a conspiratory whisper.   
  
“I think they already know.”   
  
That earned him another prohibitive glare, and he grinned.  
  
"Well, Jesus Christ, Kurosaki,” he rumbled, slow and casual. “What's gottcha so sprung? I mean, I know we had fun out there today but...”  
 **  
**"Stop talking! Just stop!” His scowl grew and he challenged hotly. “Unless you're offering to take care of it." It was a risky proposition. A calculated tactic. Beat him at his own game. Throw Grimmjow's teasing back in face and force him to back down. But Grimmjow only lived _up_ to his reputation. ****  
  
"Well, I mean shit," he scoffed, his sideways grin becoming wide and toothy. "Maybe I should, eh? Looks like yer gonna _need_ an extra set of hands to beat _that_ thing down."

They just looked at each other.  
  
Because Ichigo wasn't saying anything. His grasp of English seeming to have evaporated, leaving Grimmjow waiting for an entertaining response, growing mildly disappointed when he didn't get one.

“What?” he held his hands out. “That's a fucking compliment. Tch.” Grimmjow's mouth quirked at the corner. “You sure are _hard_ to please.”  
  
Ichigo's voice was strained and deliberate.

“I'm gonna shove this bar of soap... down your throat... if you don't shut up.”  
  
Grimmjow let a single beat skip by before he deadpanned back, thick wet lashes and eyelids drooping.  
  


“Is that all yer gonna shove down my throat?”  
  
Grimmjow jerked back hard from the spray, back arching, away from the solid white projectile that wizzed past his nose, punching through the spray and hitting the wall of the last empty stall in the shower room with a muted bang. He blinked as the soap fell, then skidded along the floor back towards them under its own slippery power.  
  
“Alright.” Grimmjow could take a hint. Lines were lines, and Grimmjow'd had his fun on the other side of Ichigo's for now. The enforcer actually jolted when Ichigo spun in his direction, hands clenching and un-clenching, snarling like a rabid dog.  
  


“So what!? I have a _dick_! And it had a _moment_! You walk around with a hard on _all the time_! Why the hell can't I?!”  
  
It wasn't often that Grimmjow Jeagerjaquez couldn't finish what he started. But the meltdown, combined with the mental image of Ichigo sporting serious wood, suddenly expanded across his vision, and he couldn't rightly think of anything beyond it for a moment.  
  
Ichigo seemed too far beyond angered and embarrassed to notice or care that he'd actually knocked the “jake”, Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez, from his perch. But like all birds, Grimmjow had wings, and within a second or two he was back in flight.  
  
He contemplated it before he did it. Grimmjow bent down, ass to the wind, more exactly, ass to Ichigo, and scooped up the bar of soap that Ichigo had whipped at him from the shower floor. He straightened and turned to face the oranget.  
  
“Soap?” he offered neutrally. The insinuation of _just what_ Ichigo could use the slippery soap for hung in the air between them. Ichigo blinked at him before he ground his eyes with his palms, elbows up. Then the red brown fires of hell opened and landed on the bluenet.  
  
“You can find your own ride home,” Ichigo seethed. He turned away and started to scrub the last remnants of dirt, sweat, soap and Grimmjow furiously out of his hair. **  
**

Grimmjow threw his hands in the air, water flinging as he did.  
  
“Alright. I give. You win,” he grinned.  
  


Ichigo said nothing in return. He wasn't really going to leave Grimmjow behind, no matter how much of an annoyance he chose to be. He really _was_ going to have to grow a thicker skin if he was going to keep hanging around the blue smartie. He turned his face up into the spray, cleansing the last of the residue from his body, wishing the redness he felt in his skin could just as easily be rinsed away.

 

**X X X**

 

They pulled up to the quiet curb in front of Grimmjow's apartment. The car came to a soft stop, and Ichigo looked at him thoughtfully.

The enforcer had been half asleep in the passenger seat once they hit the highway, long legs stretched out and seat reclined. At one point he heard a soft snore, and it made him smile. He was so sweet when he was asleep. Features boyish and innocent. It was almost a shame he spent so much of his time conscious.

“Hey dickhead, we're home.”

“Huhn?” Grimmjow flinched as he roused himself awake, his sense of awareness visibly snapping back into place. He smacked his lips a few times and blinked before he casually stretched, back arching fully out of his seat, languid and panther-like, the gravel rough hum in his throat rumbling through the car in what was to Ichigo turning into a most pleasurable display of contentment. He liked Grimmjow when he was waking up too, it seemed.

“Fuck, I'm gonna sleep good t'night.”

“You're welcome,” Ichigo smirked. Grimmjow grunted something that _should_ have sounded a lot more like, _thank you_ , as he opened the door and pulled himself out onto the curb. Ichigo hit the release on the trunk and waited. There was a thunk, and then, Grimmjow appeared by his open window, bag dumped on the road beside him.

“It wasn't a complete waste of time,” Grimmjow said blandly.  
  
“Face it. He schooled you.” Ichigo's smirk grew a little too pious. It brought a grin to Grimmjow's face, and he threw his free arm over the side of the car as he leaned into the open window.  
  
“You know... Valentine's day's just around the corner. I could, uh...” he shifted an eyebrow sweetly, “take _you_ to school.”

The window hummed, rising between them like a shield. The car growled as it lurched into gear, Grimmjow having to pull back quickly or risk getting mowed down. He raised a hand to his mouth and yelled down the street as Ichigo pulled away.  
  
“Oy! I'm not just a piece of meat. I have feelings too, ya know!”  
  
The brake lights flashed red, and a hand shot out the window in a salutation specially meant for Grimmjow.

He chuckled to himself as the car sped off, then reached down and hoisted his hockey bag off the empty street and onto his shoulder.

Yup, he was gonna sleep real good tonight. It was only five, and with how shot he felt, tonight might only be an hour away. He'd fight it, though. Naps so close to bed sometimes left him feeling gross. Plus, going to bed too early would only ruin his schedule. Besides, he needed to eat a good protein rich meal first to keep from losing more muscle mass after the workout he'd had. That'd take time to prepare. He yawned loudly as he hit the sidewalk. After that, he might not even have the energy to fantasize about cumming inside his favorite ass at this rate. But he already knew he was going to _try_.   
  
It was absolutely not normal just how excited he was to get through dinner and just _get at it_ with a fresh image of Ichigo's wet and rounded squat-toned ass on his mind before he passed out for the night.

He prowled up the walkway towards the front doors of his apartment building, mood shifting, and a couple passing his occupied mind by unnoticed.

He knew he was a perverted piece of shit, but _fuck_ , he was starting to think he had problems.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
